


J 'N B Series

by klmeri



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, Community: jim_and_bones, Crossover, Drama, Fluff, Horror, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 79,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klmeri/pseuds/klmeri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comment!fics inspired by pic posts over at the lj community jim_and_bones.  Mainly McKirk or pre-McKirk.  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Day, Another Dollar, and a Daily Show?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Janice's new job shows promise - if only for the eye-candy.

"Oh, God, _how_ did you talk me into coming this early? I'm paid by the clock, you know," complains the temp. She shoves aside a box of jelly donuts (three are already missing out of it, and there is a suspicious set of jelly fingerprints by the light switch), resolute to keep her figure and makes a cup of coffee. Janice knows how she was talked into it, of course; she is anxious to make a good impression since she's the newest member of the staff, even on a temp-to-hire basis.

Janice's friend of three days, a woman from the accounting department called Christine, holds open the lounge door for Janice as they head to their work area. Janice is the receptionist on duty.

Christine talks as she walks, "You'll want to see this. Trust me." At Janice's small desk, the other woman pulls a small mirror out of her purse and applies a fresh coat of lip balm to her mouth. "What time is it?"

Jan checks the little hands of her cheap crystal watch, but before she can reply a twitch of the white blinds of the large windowed suite across the wide room grabs her attention. Who works in there? Must be someone important—and someone who arrives much earlier than they do.

"Earth to Jan!"

"Oh, sorry. Twenty 'til 8."

"Mm," responds the blonde woman. "We have some time then. Here, try this."

Jan accepts the perfume bottle, gives it a token sniffle, before deciding it's better than anything she has with her. After a spritz around her wrists, the young woman then occupies herself by rifling through Christine's makeup bag. At ten 'til 8, another woman comes clicking down the hallway in the highest heels Jan has seen ever seen. She tries to remember who the beautiful woman is, already embarrassed that she might have to ask for a re-introduction.

Christine leans toward her ear and whispers, "Nyota Uhura. Executive Director of the firm's offshore accounts."

Janice—a temporary worker living pay check to pay check—valiantly shoves down her whimper at the sight of the woman's undoubtedly expensive and rare handbag. She and Christine share a look of longing. One day, maybe.

But who is she kidding? Janice will be well-settled only if she marries well, her mother tells her every Saturday that they talk on the phone.

Janice realizes that Christine has risen to peer around the corner of the cubicle. Janice looks too. "What time is it?" Christine asks her again, this time with a hint of excitement.

"C'mon, Christine. The suspense is killing me! What are we waiting for? To catch the donut thief?"

"Oh no, that's Scotty. He works on the second floor—such a sweetheart." Christine says all of this absently, eyes fixed on the double doors at the end of a long hallway.

Janice scoots her chair to the corner of her cubicle so she can have a good view while allowing Christine to act as a screen. Christine tugs Jan's wrist away from her body to check Jan's watch. The woman's lips silently shape numbers. Then the accountant grins and says gleefully, "Here we go!"

As if on perfect cue, one of the doors opens and a man in a smartly pressed pinstrip suit enters the hallway, stopping short to juggle his briefcase and Starbucks coffee with one hand while he checks his cellphone with the other. Repocketing the phone, he turns and Janice gets a perfect view of his face, not just his nice ass encased in tailored pants and his broad shoulders—which, yeah, had caused a little breathless noise of _ooooh my god_ like she had regressed to her early teenage years.

Next to her, Christine is smirking and giving this handsome man a very thorough once-over. Janice, lacking that sort of confidence, gapes, speechless because it's possible her brain has short-circuited.

He has long, strong legs and sexy hair and, _sweet Jesus_ , a full bottom lip and a little bow to his mouth that should be illegal.

Christine says, "I told you that you wouldn't regret an early morning." The man has reached the divider that begins the receptionist's desk. "Morning, Leonard," the woman says sweetly to him. "How was your vacation?"

He raises an eyebrow, and that shouldn't be so hot but it _is_. "Mornin'. It was fine, Christine." His eyes flick down to Jan, seated and suddenly self-conscious of the run in the back of her hose. "Hello there."

It's not until Christine nudges her that Jan replies, blushing, "Hello. I'm sorry, I don't know your name. I'm new here."

Mr. Gorgeous actually sets down his cup of coffee to shake her hand. "Leonard McCoy."

"Janice Rand."

"Janice is the new addition to our team, Mr. McCoy," says a silky feminine voice. It's Director Uhura, who had been standing to the side and whom Janice had failed to notice was present, so preoccupied with the impromptu runway show was she. She wonders if Uhura was waiting for Leonard McCoy's arrival as well; the sly, somewhat amused look in the lovely woman's eyes says _oh yes, she definitely was_.

Leonard nods to the three women, reclaims his coffee, and heads down a row of cubicles bordering the windowed suite. Janice turns in her chair to watch him, certain that she isn't going to get anything productive done today except for answering the phones in a vague daze.

Christine remarks in a low tone, "If he is near your desk and you drop something, he'll pick it up for you. The view's _great_."

Janice imagines that a lot of pens get dropped in this office.

When the man passes the door to the executive suite, the door flies open.

"Bones!"

McCoy stops, once again halted in his progress to his destination. Except this time, he is less gentlemanly about the delay. "So you're still here, kid."

Another man pokes his head out of the doorway, and that's all Janice really needs to see in order to choke on her own spit. Good God, there's _two_ of them! Where Leonard is tall, dark, and handsome, this man is a golden Adonis. Christine, for some reason, just snorts, collects her purse from Jan's desk, and walks away while saying over her shoulder, "That's Jim Kirk."

Jim Kirk… of Kirk Enterprises? Oh, crap! What's the matter with her? Doesn't she even know her own boss's name?

Janice studiously whirls her chair around to face her desk, but she can't help peeking over her shoulder. McCoy hasn't ditched the grinning Kirk, probably because Kirk is blocking his path. Then again, she does a double take and a quick assessment of both men's body language.

Oh.

_Damn._

Sighing, she logs off the main line from the overnight voicemail system and uncaps a new pen so that she can write down the names and phone numbers of the messages. Christine is cruel, Janice decides, to let her daydream of a fairy tale ending with a Prince that looks suspiciously like Leonard McCoy in a white doublet and a bit of overnight stubble; cruel for not mentioning that he's clearly taken by the head of the company.

She curses her temp agency, too. Of course they send her somewhere that teases her with god-like males in business suits. After all, gods are unattainable and Janice is but a mortal with a small savings account and a two-bedroom apartment.

The first call of the morning comes through. She picks up the phone, already reciting, "Kirk Enterprises—this is Janice…"

Jim Kirk saunters by her desk, headed to the lounge area. Her eyes track him, drawn like a moth to a flame. The man pauses, turns, and winks at her over his shoulder.

Hmm. Maybe this job has some potential to it after all.

_-Fini_


	2. Fight the Good Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim thinks of someone waiting for him.

So this is fuckin' service, a young man thinks.

Somewhere in the distance, blasts are still going off against enemy lines; the ground shakes sporadically as the artillery hits too close to this hideaway position at the base of a dirt mound lined on either side with unforgiving bracken.

His great-grandpa would have called this a foxhole. _You learn more about what makes a man in 36 hours trapped together in a hole while the sky is falling than you'd ever learn from a 20-year friendship. Trust me on that, boy._

He never saw himself in a position to experience Gramps' words firsthand.

The guy next to him is equally dirty, bruised, and exhausted. They haven't spoken till now because, really, no words are necessary. The weapons in their hands say everything in staccato bursts of energy targeting enemy ships passing overhead, things like _I want to live_ and _this is a cause we're gonna die for_.

He sighs, grateful for a second of respite from the fighting, and unhooks a flap of his uniform jacket. His mouth can't help but quirk in a smile as he takes out the paper and looks at it.

"What's that?" asks the other guy, the _fight-like-there's-no-tomorrow_ , hard-jawed man who sometimes scares him stiff with that fire of his lit deep within blue eyes; he catches those eyes staring off, more than frequently now, in the direction of the enemy's camp rumored to be tucked into a mountain base kilometers away.

The guy reeks of command potential, of the instinctual need to be in the heart of battle.

He holds the paper up for the guy to see. "Gorgeous, isn't she?"

It's a flyer for a burlesque show he picked up on his last R&R. In dead center is a lovely green-skinned Orion, clad in enough flimsy cloth for a modicum of modesty but draped in such a way to accentuate her lush curves. She is in a pose of a traditional bellydance, her finger-cymbals at the ready.

The guy has a lopsided grin. "Orions are definitely worth the effort" is the proffered advice.

That's what he's hoping. He needs a reason—if a shallow one—to want to get out of this wartime pit alive. Fantasizing of a hot tryst with an Orion is as a good reason as any, considering he doesn't have a sweetheart to think of.

"You got a girl?" he asks out of curiosity. Might as well live vicariously, right?

The other young man digs in his pants pocket and carefully extricates a neatly folded photograph, the back of which is slightly yellowed and is stamped in small print along the bottom with a stardate two years old. It is well-worn at the edges, and the way the guy's expression softens when he looks at the photo is a bright neon sign of _in-love_ that even a blind man would have to take note of.

He scoots closer to the guy, who has fallen silent (in respect, maybe?), for a better look at the face— _Oh._

"Wow" is all he can manage.

Not a girl then.

But damn that's one good-looking man. Green eyes and a cupid-bow mouth.

"What's his name?"

The guy hesitates, eyeing him like he's going to snatch up the treasure and run with it. "Bones."

Good looks, terrible name. A face like that can make up for a lot, though.

He teases, "When we get out of here, are you going to introduce me?"

"Fuck no. He's mine."

"Asshole."

"Cunt."

And just like that, they're friends. He sticks out his hand. "Name's Mitchell. Gary Mitchell."

The name stitched on the guy's jacket says Kirk. "James Tiberius," Kirk introduces himself in return. "Jim."

Kirk's communicator interrupts their admittedly brief bonding time, a burst of harsh orders making the unit practically jump in Jim's hand. It says _get back to work_ and _enemy moving west_.

Mitchell puts away the promise of his Orion girl, watching from the corner of his eye as Jim strokes a thumb across the photo, head bowed like he's saying a prayer, before tucking it away. They shoulder their weapons.

Kirk is saying, "You know, I have an idea. If we could—"

Gary interjects, "Is this plan of yours likely to get us killed?"

Jim shrugs, nonchalant. "Probably. But we'll take a lot of those fuckers with us if we succeed."

Mitchell, seeing Kirk's determination and somehow feeling a pull toward this man in response—a gut instinct of _trust him_ , does not think about his answer. "I'm in."

It turns out that they don't die. Gary, with a hole in his left side, pants on the ground beside a slumped and bloodied but manically grinning Lt. James T. Kirk. The enemy camp is going up in flames around them. Jim tells his new friend, "When I make Captain, you're on my team, Mitchell."

"Gotta make sure I don't bleed out first, stupid," grunts Gary.

"Not a problem. Bones is an awesome medic." And with that, Jim hauls him upright, dragging Gary's arm over his shoulders, and together they stagger toward the group of the 'Fleet troopers kicking up the planet's dust in a hurry to reach the unexpected fire.

Gary wonders if Jim'll punch him for flirting with this mysterious but obviously worth-living-for Bones. Gary thinks _probably_ , starts laughing (shock undoubtedly setting in), and beside him, Jim starts laughing too.

_-Fini_


	3. Don't Touch the Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says. It shouldn't have been touched.

Really?

" _Really?_ " Jim echoes the thought out loud.

Chekov's eyes widen. "Da! It vas this BIG, sir!" The navigator has a lengthy distance between his hands to indicate such fervent proclamations of dimension.

The captain's eyes skip over to the engineer. "Mr. Scott?"

"Twas giant, sir," agrees the man in a heavy Scottish burr. Scotty won't quite meet Jim's eyes. "Never seen the like o' it."

Jim sits back in his command chair and the two fingers against his left temple are mirrored by two fingers from his other hand against his right temple. He slowly massages the skin, knowing the lack of ache there won't last long. At last, dropping his hands and sighing to acknowledge the silence on the Bridge, he turns in his chair to address the people at his back.

"Call down to wardrobe, Uhura. Have them met us in the transporter room with appropriate attire." He grimaces. "Spock, assemble a security team just in case."

The Vulcan, unfortunately, doesn't need to ask what kind of situation _just in case_ refers to.

Thinking of the security team, the word _voyeurs_ occurs to Jim, and he almost plants his face in his palm. Instead he asks Pavel again, "Are you sure?"

The young man nods earnestly. "Mr. Scott and I vere lucky to get back to the ship before... uh, unhindered, sir."

Chekov blushes, and Jim is certain the back of his own neck is red.

"We'll handle it as best we can," he tells Pavel firmly.

If at all possible, Chekov gets redder. Jim says nothing when the navigator puts his back to the rest of the Bridge crew and pretends to be interested in his console.

This is the last time Jim sends Bones down to a planet by himself. Okay, to be fair, Dr. McCoy beamed down in a party of five, including Pavel, Scotty, Sulu, and a redshirt whose name always eludes Kirk.

Pavel and Scotty had evaded contamination; Bones, Sulu, and the nameless redshirt did not.

The landing party had stumbled upon an old abandoned shrine; the shrine, interestingly enough, was a large (and Pavel implies _large_ as in the universe's biggest ever) blatantly phallus-shaped rock decorated with runes. And old though the shrine may be, it still had some kind of unexplainable effect on those who touched it.

God if Jim knows how they are going to cure this particular bout of madness; normally the senior medical officer figures it out with his brilliant mind.

Oh, Bones.

Bones just _had_ to touch the enormous cock.

So did Sulu, apparently. The redshirt too.

Jim would smirk on any other day and be happy to feed a fantasy of his or two. Except Bones is currently naked and horny _planet-side_ , having ripped off his clothes in a crazed fit. It's not so fun if Jim is stuck on the ship in the meantime.

Another strange phenomenon (which hasn't occurred with the previous cases of foreign-induced lust such as this one) is that the infected/possessed/whatever-the-hell-happened-to-them officers aren't interested in each other sexually. They only want to screw the un-infected. And the shrine that has zapped his boyfriend's libido has also done something to prevent the transporter from locking onto him.

Again, sexed-up Bones on planet. Jim, not. This is clearly injustice.

Someone has to go down to the surface and fend off the three men or sedate them or something. Jim has no problems with volunteering himself because 1) he is certain he is man enough to handle the situation (he told Chekov so and Jim Kirk isn't a liar or a coward) and 2) Bones is _his_ and Jim just doesn't appreciate the thought of someone else getting the caressing touch of Bones' hands or the sinful delight of Bones' mouth, not to mention other special bits of Bones too.

There will be one or two downsides, of course. Sex in the bushes _hurts_. So does sex over sharp rocks.

Jim makes a resigned noise and stands up, ready to go to the transporter room.

Though it will be a nice consolation later on, he thinks rather gleefully, to see his lover's face after Bones finds out that he tried to molest poor Scotty.

_-Fini_


	4. A Tear Worth Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actor AU.

"A basket is a basket is a basket," says one man.

His companion argues, "Nay! 'Tis more than that, my friend. A basket is the craft of a man's hands."

"Woman—a woman's hands."

A pause. Then a sigh. "Damn, again?"

The dark-haired man with the wide-legged stance pinches the bridge of his nose. "I swear to God, Giotto, if you'd just _learn_ your lines..."

Samuel Giotto drops his eyes to his boots and mutters to himself. His fellow actor—the _better_ of the two of them, really—is Leonard McCoy. McCoy slides down from the railing he is perched on, taking care not to crush the basket between his legs.

"Want a water?" McCoy asks Giotto.

Sam nods, scratching the back of his head. He vacates the set for a side table to dig around for an extra script. Woman's hands. _Woman's hands._

This is why he was cast as the somewhat slow dimwit of a friend, he thinks despairingly, rather than the male lead. And of course, because McCoy isn't just good but _great_. He flicks his eyes in the direction McCoy had trailed and takes a moment to revel in his fanboy worship before tucking it away under a veneer of professionalism.

Then a loud, familiar voice curses. "God _damn_ it!"

To say Sam freaks out and heads for the off-stage area at a run crying "Leonard? Leonard! What's happened?" would be overly dramatic. He only panics on the inside, and there is nothing high-pitched about his manly call of "What is it, McCoy?"

McCoy is standing with his back to a door when Samuel arrives. The steady drumming of rain, which had been muffled by the roof beams and the extra set walls, is quite clear. He smells earth and something close to a faint odor of mildew. These old buildings. But it's not like the acting company can afford better.

"McCoy?" questions Giotto hesitantly, curiously.

"It's him," says the famous actor grimly. More fiercely this time, "God DAMN it!"

Him?

Sam ushers McCoy aside and takes a peek out of the door because he can't help himself (and he has always had little enough sense, he is told). A young, brightly grinning man is on the other side, standing in the rain and yet not unhappy about it.

"Hello," he says to Samuel. "Is Bones there?"

McCoy is making frantic arm-waves of _Say no! Nonono!_ in the corner of Sam's eye.

"I don't know of any Bones."

The man's smile grows. He singsongs, "Booones! Bones, I've been waiting out here _all day!_ " Then, more petulantly, "It's raining on me."

McCoy jerks the door out of Sam's grasp and opens it wide to glare at the blond-haired man. "GO. AWAY. YOU STALKER."

Sam would be scared of that look in Leonard's eyes, but somehow it still makes the actor more endearing. The stalker apparently thinks so too.

"Jim," he tells them both. "My name's Jim." Jim leans against the doorframe. "I love you, Bones. Fuck, man, but I love you! You're sooo awesome. Can I come in?" The last sentence is said with a boyish hopefulness.

McCoy tries to close the door. Jim wedges his foot in its way.

Sam is uncertain of how to handle this situation. He's never had a stalker of his own. His acting is on par with a cat in a bathtub, he's been told more than once. Oh but how cruel Director Pike is with words sometimes...

At that point, during Sam's wandering train of thought, Jim has managed to stick an arm through the gap and latched onto the first thing—namely, Samuel's shirt front. Sam gets the side of his face banged against the doorframe as Jim tugs on him repeatedly.

McCoy is resolutely still trying to close the door. The not-slight but well-toned actor has put his full weight against it and is obviously pushing for all he is worth.

Giotto, now caught in the middle, shouts, "Stop! OWW, FUCK! STOP IT!"

Surprisingly, both men stop. Sam staggers back, putting a hand to his abused face.

McCoy comes to his side and tilts his head into the overhead light. He is asked, " Does it hurt bad? Shit, I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam is rather distracted by the warm curl in his belly because _Leonard Horatio McCoy_ is touching him. TOUCHING him. The stupid grin on his face must reassure the other man.

McCoy rounds on Jim, who has slipped through the door unimpeded. "You imbecile! Look what you did to Sam!"

Jim looks like he might scuff a shoe against the ground. His reply, however, is a bit heated. "You shoulda let me in, Bones."

"Quit bothering me at work!"

"You're the one who said we should share our dreams—"

"In last month's play!" interrupts McCoy quite loudly, not letting Jim finish.

Sam puts a hand to his ear with a wince. He looks between Jim and Leonard. "Um, do you two... know each other?"

"We're lovers," Jim says proudly. "Though we're quarrelling lovers at the moment."

Samuel might have thought this was the delusion of an obsessed fan but after observing the red tint of McCoy's face his hopes sink like a stone.

"Shut up, Jim, it was _one_ time," hisses McCoy. Then to Sam, " _Never_ sleep with a fan."

Jim crosses his arms, clearly nonplussed by this dismissal of his importance. "At your place. Then twice at mine, one-two- _three_ times in the back of your car and, oh yeah, once on a bus bench. Should I keep going?"

Samuel turns away because if he cries in front of Leonard, he'll be forever ashamed. Through deep breathing he is able to keep the tears of sadness at bay. Heartbreak makes a better actor, right? he thinks, covering up a sniffle.

Leonard is bickering in that lovely deep drawl of his, and Jim seems quite used to it. Figuring that this lovers' spate is not his business—and Sam really, honestly doesn't want to listen to it—he trails back to the abandoned stage.

Christine Chapel, the assistant on duty, is at the side table arranging an array of pastries. Pike will show up in another twenty minutes and then practice time will be over.

Christine takes one look at his morose face and offers him a bearclaw pastry. "Today will be fine, Sam, I promise. Pike's always in a good mood on a Thursday."

Stuffing the bearclaw in his mouth prevents him from explaining the true nature of his woes. Sam accepts the pat on his back as best he can and puts on his brave actor's face.

Pike criticizes his forgetfulness and his untimely delivery of the lines per usual during the "basket" scene; but later when Sam falls to his knees after learning of his sweetheart's betrayal and feels the truth of the part is he playing, when he breaks down without reserve... well, even the hard-ass director is moved enough by Samuel's unadulterated anguish.

Giotto enjoys his first true applause from his colleagues, wipes his face free of tears, and thinks he will survive his life after all.

_-Fini_


	5. Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janice the temp is having the work day from Hell, and surprisingly people at Kirk Enterprises are nice enough to care.

Ever have one of those days that make you want to yell at God "You're fired!"? Janice is currently in the middle of a Day of Catastrophes. The morning starts out simple enough… except that she's so groggy (even after a shower) that she burns her hand on her curling iron and chokes on mouthwash (never speed up your morning routine just because you woke up ten minutes late) which makes her kind of sick to her stomach. Drinking water doesn't help.

But then she misses the bus (again, ten minutes late somehow makes all the difference) and has to hail a cab she can't really afford in order to get to work before her boss. Well, none of this is unusual because evil mornings do occur once and a while for the working gal. Janice fully expects to soothe herself with a donut she'd otherwise talk herself out of eating. Perhaps it should have been a clue then, upon her arrival, that the usual office donut-bringer had called in sick (she thinks his name is Decker) and the sad lack of morning donuts and pastries in the lounge is the reason why she discovers Mr. Scott—Scotty, to most everyone—from the second floor turning in circles close to the refrigerator like a lost child. He says to her, ominously, "Och, this is going to be a bad day."

Janice digs in her purse, attempts to offer him a mid-afternoon yogurt cup snack she brings to work, but he shakes his head sadly and leaves jelly-donut-less and quite depressed. Janice knows the second floor harbors the IT and Infrastructure department; it's said without those particular employees the building itself would implode.

The morning is agonizingly slow until a telemarketer calls. The first time she answers his call she is polite. No, Kirk Enterprises is not in need of a water vending machine or a magazine subscription to water vending machines. But he is persist and calls back on the hour, each hour (the economy is that bad), and starts asking to speak to the manager or the person in charge of office purchases. But Janice doesn't dare transfer him to anyone else because it's year-end and everyone is crazy-busy, especially the financial department who have commandeered flame-torches just for those morons who interrupt their work day with anything less than the announcement of Armageddon (which, apparently, still can't compare to Year End Armageddon) or a _very high priority_ phone call from one of the internal auditors.

Her headache begins after the third call, which she fends off by saying that _no one_ is available to talk to him and he is tying up the phone lines for clients and businesses affiliated with the company. Could he please try back next week?

Janice wants badly to yell at him by his fifth consecutive call before lunchtime but her cubicle has flimsy, non-soundproofing walls and if she loses her temper in view of the entire office, the temp agency will surely send someone immediately to collect her. Hanging up the phone with a resounding bang is the best she can do to ease her growing temper.

Finally she takes a bathroom break during a lull of phone calls to toss cold water on her face and swallow some aspirin. That's when she discovers that her hosiery has an unsightly run _in the very front_ of her leg from ankle to knee. She could wear badly patched fishnet stockings than looked better. Forced to strip off her hose in a bathroom stall, this is the point where Janice accidently bangs her already aching head against the hook on the inside of the door; then her ponytail and necklace simultaneously get caught by the hook (in an attempt to strangle her?) and it's a two-minute struggle of cursing and stomping to yank herself free.

By the time Janice steps out of the stall, Executive Director Nyota Uhura is watching her sharply in the mirror, lipstick tube hovering near the woman's mouth. Uhura is perfection personified in her trim jacket-skirt suit, high heels, and diamond earrings. Jan, ruined hose in hand, looks like she's been in a fight with an angry cat.

Janice drops her eyes, embarrassed, and washes her hands in the sink. Uhura caps her lipstick and exits the bathroom. Jan almost cries in relief.

Back to work, then. She is astonished to find a frowning, neatly dressed man waiting by her desk. She hurries over to him, apologizing and explaining that she had taken a short bathroom break. Had he been waiting long? Can she get him a glass of water? Does he have an appointment?

The man levels a flat look at her and states, "I have an urgent meeting scheduled with Mr. Kirk at 11 am. It is now 11:03." His eyes flick down to the cheap crystal watch on her wrist which never shows the correct time. "Perhaps you might invest in a more efficient watch."

Janice takes the criticism with grace and a bit of shame. "I will tell Mr. Kirk that…"

"I am Mr. Spock," he supplies readily.

"…you are waiting in the lobby, Mr. Spock."

She tries calling Kirk's office. The busy message is on. Asking Mr. Spock to please take a seat (he doesn't, though, only stands there, eyes boring into her), Jan hurries across the floor to the windowed suite with the blinds drawn closed. She hates, hates, hates going to his office because he is always in the middle of some important video conference with the Enterprise Board members. Despite that he never gives her the stink eye for interrupting him, never says an unkind word, or snaps at her, she still feels bad about barging in unannounced.

Janice knocks softly on the door. No response. A glance over her shoulder confirms that Mr. Spock disapproves of her hesitancy. Her second knock is firmer. Someone might have just said _come in_. She isn't sure but she cracks open the door anyway.

And instantly regrets doing so.

Mr. McCoy and Mr. Kirk jump apart like they have been zapped. Kirk's shirt is open to the waist and McCoy's tie is askew. On any other day, she would have slammed the door shut again and scurried back to her cubicle to blush into her hands and rearrange the items on her desk twice.

But there's another matter to be dealt with. Eyes resolutely fixed on a spot above both men's heads, she says, "Forgive me, Mr. Kirk. Mr. Spock is here to see you." _Then_ she closes the door and scurries back to her desk, face red.

Mr. Spock only lifts his eyebrow, silent. She explains that Mr. Kirk will be with him momentarily—once he is finished with another meeting that ran over its allotted time.

In fact, it takes only five minutes for Jim Kirk to come out of his office. The man's purposeful stride towards Mr. Spock almost succeeds in distracting any trained eye from noticing how Leonard McCoy slips out of Kirk's office a second later and disappears around a corner of another cubicle. But she was watching for McCoy and secretly smiles to herself.

Kirk doesn't acknowledge Jan and Jan doesn't acknowledge him, barring a polite "I will hold your calls, Mr. Kirk."

He doesn't correct her like usual either and remind her to use his first name.

Well, she hadn't arrived early enough to catch McCoy's entrance (Christine had chastised Jan for missing the production—"He's _gorgeous_ in that three-piece today, and I dropped a whole box of pens") but that sneak peek of Kirk and McCoy in each other's arms is sooo much better. She knows she shouldn't have fantasies of her co-workers (or boss) but what warm-blooded woman could resist? Now she has a new delicious mental image to feed her imagination. This job, though Janice Rand has only been temp-ing here for two months, is the best job she has had by far.

The one bright spot in the day is quickly overshadowed by a hellish afternoon. She could complain about the unnatural influx of calls—every _two_ minutes, being a receptionist _sucks_ —or the tech guy with unfortunate body odor who shows up two hours late to fix the server (when the Internet goes down, people think the world is ending and cannot function) who keeps his eyes fixed on her breasts and does not take heed of her attempts to ignore him. She could, but those are not the most troubling issues.

She had Chinese for lunch because it's fast and the unwieldy, jostling crowds of people in the downtown area make fast lunch as precious as gold. Now, however, it isn't settling in her stomach well and she has heartburn. Yet heartburn or not, Jim had tossed a few pages of unreadable notes onto her desk for her type up (why is his handwriting so awful? she muses) and Jan is stuck on a squiggle that could either be a _t_ or a _f_ and refuses to make up its mind.

Frustrated and suddenly feeling like she might throw up (oh God, food poisoning? just what she needs, she can't afford a sick day), Janice swings around the corner of her cubicle, Jim's notes in her hand, without paying attention—and smacks right into Leonard McCoy and his after-lunch coffee cup. Said-coffee cup spills its contents all over them both. Leonard's "Goddamn it!" is very close to her own "OH GOD!"

Her only silk blouse—coffee-covered, ruined. Mr. Kirk's handwritten notes—equally ruined.

Her stomach clenches painfully at that moment. She doesn't even have time to apologize before clamping a hand over her mouth and bolting for the women's restroom.

Christine Chapel, who is drying her hands by the door, calls "Hey, Jan, what's—" which goes unanswered until, that is, Janice is vomiting into the nearest toilet.

The temp's mind is idly ticking away, saying _thank God you didn't puke on Leonard_ and _what am I going to do about the notes!_ and _no Chinese from that restaurant ever again, never ever_. When she is finished, at least for the time-being as there could be a repeat performance, she flushes the toilet and sits limply on the cool tile floor of the bathroom.

The sound of running water starts and stops. A wet paper towel is pushed into her hand.

Jan manages weakly, "Thanks."

Christine squats down to her level. "You pregnant, honey?"

Janice's laughter is strangled. "Definitely not." Then she sniffles. "I spilt coffee all over Leonard."

"At least you didn't throw up on him."

Another laugh bubbles up, along with bile. She burps. Christine pats her hand. "Can I get you anything? Water?"

"A rock to hide under?" she jokes. Her stomach feels sensitive; when she puts a hand against it, Christine looks concerned. She tells the woman, "I, um, I'm okay. Really."

"You can go home, you know, if you aren't well. Want me to find someone to drive you?"

She shakes her head. "It's not that bad." Heaving herself to her feet, she wobbles over to the sink to wash out her mouth.

Christine helps her blot her soaked blouse, then runs and fetches an extra sweater Christine keeps on the door of her office. "It gets so cold in here sometimes," says Christine as Jan slips it on. "I can't stand the cold."

Jan feels better, good enough to leave the safety of the bathroom, but when she arrives at her desk she realizes she doesn't remember what happened to the notes. She cannot find them—not in the trash can (she looks in hers and then the closest one to her cubicle) or in the bathroom or in the hallway. Bordering upset, Janice tries to tell herself finding them wouldn't help anyway, not with the state they were last in. Still, she can't complete her assignment and her stomach hurts and _damn it, damn it, damn it!_ she is going to be McCoy's least favorite person after today.

The phone rings. She waits a second, picks it up, and says woefully, "Kirk Enterprises. How may I direct your call?"

A familiar voice begins the same spiel: "Hello, I am calling from Aqua Delight, a thr—"

Jan's fingers turn white around the phone handle. "Stop it!" she shrieks and on impulse bangs the phone against the desk several times for good measure. Only marginally calmer, she snaps out, "Stop calling here! I've already _told_ you we don't _need_ your services. We have a water cooler, it works fine, and we're SATISFIED WITH IT, YOU NINCOMPOOP! UGH!" She hangs up.

A voice says over her shoulder, "Wow, Bones, what did you do to Janice?"

Janice half-turns, sees the CEO of Kirk Enterprises and Mr. McCoy standing behind her, and is mortified. She puts a hand to her mouth and drops her head to her desk. So much for her job; so much for making her rent this month. The landlady's going to kick her out now, she just knows it.

Is it any wonder Janice starts to cry a little, if silently?

A hand pats her back awkwardly. Leonard tries to comfort her by saying, "Hey, it's all right, darlin'."

For his sake, she wipes her face and tries to compose herself. "I'm so sorry about the coffee, Mr. McCoy."

Leonard says quickly, "Now, it's my place to say sorry. I dumped my coffee all over you and your papers 'cause I'm an idiot."

She looks up at him in surprise. "But…"

Leonard looks pointedly at her; she shuts up. "I told Jim all about it, and that he wouldn't have any business fussing at you for something that's my fault."

Jim holds up the now-soggy notes she couldn't find. "Don't worry about this. Spock said he'd email me a copy of his notes."

McCoy snorts. "Which you ought to have asked for in the first place, Jim. Spock's notes are always a sight better than your chicken scratch."

Kirk flaps the notes at his partner. "Hey, no insulting the boss. I even let you borrow one of my shirts."

Leonard jerks at his collar. "It's damned tight, too."

"Your shoulders are broader than Jim's," Janice offers by way of explanation. She flushes when they look at her. "I mean, that was nice of Mr. Kirk. And of you, Mr. McCoy, for—everything."

He smiles at her. The last of her urge to cry vanishes.

The CEO says to her, "We heard from Christine that you aren't feeling well. And to top it off, Bones dumped coffee over your head."

McCoy jabs Kirk with his elbow and scowls.

"So," concludes Jim, "take the rest of the day to recuperate. You can put down a full day's work," he adds when she tries to protest.

There isn't much to say accept a fervent thank you. Janice does so, more than once. Jim just winks and strolls down the hall toward the company lounge. Leonard hesitates before following him, though, and looks at her. "Do you need a ride home?" he asks.

Janice almost says no but after today she deserves a treat, right? Instead the young woman smiles sweetly. "Please."

McCoy nods, waits while she collects her purse and shuts down her computer. Then she hurriedly clicks along the hallway after him in her short heels, never mind what a mess she looks with a rumpled skirt, stained shirt, and pale, un-tanned legs. Nyota and Christine, who are coming out of the lounge together, pause and give her a long look. She points at Leonard's back, grins ridiculously and bounces a little.

Uhura smirks. Christine pouts.

And a terrible day is made right again.

_-Fini_


	6. Pirates Read Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An obsession can start at a young age. Pre-K/M.

**PIRATES READ TOO!**

The small boy pauses in his toddling along to slowly lip-sync the print on a peeling poster slapped haphazardly against the dingy terminal wall. His mother—in a hurry to catch the shuttle before all of the double seats are taken—tugs urgently at his hand and coaxes, "Walk with Mommy, sweetie. Don't you want to ride the shuttle?" But the child ignores her, his baby blue eyes meandering from the bold block letters of the SF Book Club's holiday promotional poster (it's Halloween but he is too young to make the connection with the patch-eyed pirate snarling jovially and waving a digital book pad at his audience of unseen children) to an occupied bench lining the wall some feet away. He widens his eyes and sticks a finger in his mouth, making a soundless noise of surprise. Impatient, the woman slings him up onto her hip, re-shoulders her purse and marches on determinedly.

The child is unappreciative of this interruption of events. He plops his finger out of his mouth, fingernail wetly chewed upon, and points imperatively at the person who has caught his attention. "Momma!" his young voice insists. "MOMMA!"

She glances at the object of his fascination and, not understanding said fascination, says, "What, baby? Yes, I see him."

"Pirate," announces the boy.

"No, Jimmy. There are no pirates today."

Jimmy leans in counterpoint to her body, as far as he can reach, and points more furiously, first at the man then at the poster. "Pirate!"

The dark-haired man on the bench looks up, realizing the shout is aimed in his direction. He spies the little boy's gesturing and comprehends that he has been identified by a precocious five-year old. The stranger closes the open book on his knee, lifts his eyebrows comically, and grins at the blond child. His thumbs-up is confirmation: _oh yes, I am a pirate. A reading pirate._

The boy laughs to himself, satisfied. The harried mother shifts the weight of her son absently while digging in her purse for their shuttle tokens. Once she finds the tokens, she hands them to the attendant and only then notices her boy is gleefully cheerful, more so than before. "What's so funny?" she asks. "Want to share the joke with Mommy?"

Jimmy nods judiciously, though his mother is once again preoccupied, attempting to safely board herself and her child onto the shuttle-craft headed for the outskirts of San Francisco. Next month, they will leave the city altogether for Iowa but she hasn't tried explaining that to him yet.

"Pirate man," Jimmy informs her.

"Mmm, pirates," she concedes without thought, stroking a hand across the crown of his head.

"Pirates rwead!"

When they are settled in their seats, she leans over to kiss his forehead. "Of course pirates read, darling," Winona Kirk smiles downs at her bouncy boy.

He kicks his legs in agreement, then turns his attention to demolishing the seatbelt preventing him from a few fun minutes of exploration of the shuttle and its other occupants.

~~~

_Twenty years later..._

"What the hell is this?"

"Pants."

McCoy rolls his eyes. "I know _what_ they are, Jim. I mean, why are you shoving them at me? They're... black," he says with a hint of disapproval.

"And have lots of pockets for your knives," James T. Kirk informs his companion.

"Knives are barbaric," remarks the doctor pointedly, eyeing the pants more warily, no doubt wondering if Jim has stowed uncouth things in its many pockets.

"A scalpel isn't a knife?"

"Shut up."

"Booones," says Jim in a half-whine, "put them on. And here!" He tosses another article of clothing at the man. "This one, too!"

McCoy holds up the thin mesh top and makes an unhappy face. "It's ripped, kid." Jim stares at McCoy until he caves. "Why do I have to wear it?"

The young Kirk asks with a sad shake of his head, "When's the last time you looked at a calendar?"

"I know what day it is! It's—"

"Halloween. And you're a pirate. Put it on."

Leonard immediately drops the clothes in a pile on the floor like they are burning hot. "What are we, five? Idiot."

"Nooo, but we're going to Gaila's Monster Bash. It's costume only." Jim crowds McCoy, resolutely stuffs the pants and shirt back into the man's arms, and herds him toward the bathroom. "If we're late, we miss the good booze!"

"I'm not going!" comes the loud complaint, muffled only by the slamming of the bathroom door.

Jim just grins. When Leonard returns to the room dressed in the outfit Jim swindled from an actual space pirate (he has great connections but Bones refuses to believe this), Jim gives the good-looking man an appreciative once-over and says, eyes bright, "Almost."

McCoy looks nonplussed. " _Almost?_ I look like a damn vagabond!"

After a moment of shoving aside various items near the foot of his bed (PADDS, a toothbrush, that one sock which has been missing forever, and a half-eaten apple) Jim finds what he is looking for and tenderly tucks the small object into Bones' hand.

McCoy looks at it, bemused. "A book?"

Jim slides his arm over McCoy's shoulders, surreptitiously leaning into his fantasy come to life. "Don't you know, Bones? Pirates read too."

His Bones, it seems, isn't going to waste breath arguing the point. Thus Jimmy, as anticipated, wins his very own reading pirate.

_-Fini_


	7. The Case of the Mondays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Morning is a way to get yourself in gear, especially when you are tracking down the city's most dangerous criminal - with a little help on the side, of course.

"Mondays are shit."

"Today is Tuesday."

"Pseudo-Mondays are shit."

"Boss, you need a re-fill on the java?"

McCoy squints one eye at his blinking assistant, slowly uncrosses his legs and drops his feet from his desk with a thud. "What the fuck took you so long to figure that out?" He up-ends his empty coffee mug to emphasize his point.

8 a.m. and he's already cursing. Ought to have been clue enough, even for a slow-wit. The assistant takes the mug without another word and trails out of his office. McCoy, finding that tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair is somehow unsatisfying this morning, picks up a pen and chucks it across the room.

He doesn't get paid the big bucks to sit on his ass; in fact, if he sits in his office all day he _definitely_ won't get paid. And paperwork has never been his favorite past-time. Hence this is why several minutes later McCoy strides out the cramped box he calls his office, startling the still sleep-fogged assistant, and snatches the re-filled coffee mug before it tilts down the front of the poor kid's shirt. He grimaces at the black liquid, knowing it's the cheap shit but he's on a budget, before swallowing a mouthful. Then, "Call Detective what's-his-face at the precinct."

"Kirk."

"Yeah, the bonehead."

"I think he has a medal of honor or something."

"Just makes him a decorated bonehead. I'm gone," he announces loudly as he slams open the door to the third-floor lobby and heads for the elevator.

The assistant might be saying something like _what about your appointment with—?_ He deliberately drowns that out. No need to think about _her_ quite yet. ...Except who is he kidding? Meeting his ex-wife and her lawyer probably won't be the worst part of his day.

~~~

"Hey, Bones! Did you bring me a donut?"

 _Fucking cop jokes,_ McCoy thinks sourly. He drags out the chair from the corner of Kirk's office and slouches into it. Kirk's grinning, bright-eyed countenance only makes his mood more acerbic. "I guess coppers are called pigs for a reason," he says, stretching out his lazy, eat-shit drawl.

Kirk remains completely unaffected.

A man in a coffee-stained shirt and askew tie stops by the open door to Kirk's office. He ignores Kirk and fixes McCoy with hooded look and knowing quirk to his mouth. "Hey there, Leonard. What brings you here—business or pleasure? I gotta say, it would great if it was the latter."

McCoy snorts derisively. _You wish, you little turd pole._ He is on the cusp of expressing that sentiment aloud wholeheartedly when Jim interrupts, voice diamond-hard, "Frank, have you processed last night's catch?"

"Buncha drunks and public disturbances," grunts Frank.

Kirk's smile has a sharp edge that McCoy finds impressive. "Get it done anyway. Unless you want Sulu's help."

Frank backs away muttering something like _fucking Sulu, no fucking way_.

McCoy scratches at his day-old beard once Jim has gotten up and shut the door. "Since when you are the big balls in this joint?"

"Since the Chief promoted me."

"God _damn_. Another fucking promotion? What'd they make you this time? Captain?" McCoy shakes his head sadly. "Your boss disappoints me."

Kirk leans against the edge of his desk. A stack of file folders next to him shifts ominously. "Look, Bones, what do you need? Not that I mind the visits but..."

"Spock."

Kirk groans.

McCoy, offended by this response, sits up and pokes his finger against Kirk's knee. "Don't tell me you've quit lookin' for the SOB!"

"Of course we haven't," the detective snaps. "He's just damn fucking impossible to find."

"I'm gonna catch that bastard," McCoy says, fire in his eyes, "and then you're gonna lock him up and flush the key down the toliet."

"We need a lead first," Kirk points out, amused.

McCoy grips the arms of his chair. He had been thinking about this last night. Couldn't sleep for thinking about it, plotting, cursing a certain thief's name. "What we need is _bait_."

"Bones..."

"Don't give me a spiel, kid. You know damn well you love the idea." McCoy is pleased to see that Kirk can barely suppress a grin. He waits patiently for Kirk to regain control of his serious face before continuing. "I might not be on the city payroll but I have good instincts. We can catch 'im, Jim. I know we can!"

"The Chief will have my head."

Ah, hooked him. Now to reel him in slowly. "Then lucky for you I am an independent. If I set the trap 'n you happen to conveniently be in the neighborhood, who's gonna kick up a fuss about that?"

Jim rubs his chin in thought. "I'd have to have an excellent reason for 'being in the neighborhood,' Bones. And where exactly is the neighborhood?"

"Art gallery on Coit. Friend of mine says she can help us out."

Jim whistles, impressed. "Fancy place. But I don't usually hang out in art galleries, you know."

The P.I. shrugs. "Me either." McCoy's stomach does a sudden flop at the way Kirk's blue eyes are considering him intently.

"Actually," the good-looking man says, "I _can_ think of a good reason. A great reason." Impishly, "How about a date, Bones?"

This... is not why he came visiting. Definitely not. The idea still makes him feel hot under the collar. "A little wining and dining and then catching an art thief?"

"Or the other way around."

"Nah, we'd better get the dinner bit out of the way first." Oh holy crap, did that just come out of his mouth? And where is his brain hiding? McCoy tries to backtrack. "I mean, we can't be chasing Spock around on empty stomachs, right? The little bugger is fast." He recalls the last run-in he had with the criminal and his ire rises.

Spock, that arrogant, slippery eel of a bastard!

As if Jim knows he is mentally picturing his hands around the elusive thief's neck, the detective reaches out and squeezes his forearm. "A date it is then, Bones." He grabs his jacket from the back of the office door as he swings it open and says, "Let's grab some coffee at Marie's. We can discuss the particulars of the case." His eyes are twinkling as he says this loudly enough for the rest of officers in the work area beyond to hear.

~~~

McCoy realizes belatedly as Jim holds the door for him at Marie's that the man had said _date_. He turns to stare at Kirk, who greets the brunette behind the counter with abundant charm.

"Nobody's dating nobody," he grumbles under his breath.

"What can I get you and... your boyfriend?" asks the barista, batting her eyelashes at Kirk.

"Mm, Bones, what do you want?"

He meets Jim's eyes, knows in that second the man is not going to correct the barista's assumption, and arguing about it would be pointless.

Means nothing.

As Jim leads the way to table tucked in a corner of the shop, he is saying to McCoy, "If we don't catch Spock this time, we can always try again at another gallery or a private collector's auction. I'm available," he adds, peering at McCoy over his cup, "any time you need me—so long as you remember our cover story in case my boss wants to know what we're up to."

He stirs cream into his coffee. "That we're dating?" he asks hesitantly.

"Yes." Jim leans forward, lowers his voice. "Of course, it would be a lot more believable if we were really together, Bones." Kirk waggles his eyebrows like a true comedian.

"Why am I sensing you aren't interested in catching Spock?"

Jim doesn't answer that. The guy doesn't have to, and McCoy thinks maybe he has just dug himself into a hole he might never get out of. Figures. Pseudo-Mondays are almost as bad as Mondays.

He'll let Kirk have his way this one time. After all, McCoy's all about the job, as a private eye, and Spock ranks on the top of his list _catch-em-jail-em-go-straight-to-collect_. Jim will learn that eventually. Only business, no pleasure.

Except Jim Kirk is one of those slippery ones, too. He goes left when everybody else goes right.

Decided, McCoy enjoys his coffee for a moment before talking. "One date," he says firmly, tone brooking no argument. "And you let me be the one to handcuff Spock and shove his ass into the back of a squad car."

"You're kinky, Bones. I like it."

"Shut up and drink your damn coffee."

With the expression of man who thinks he has won, Jim obeys.

_-Fini_


	8. Today's Topic - Helmets!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack!fic. The Enterprise is not safety-ready. Ye be warned.

Someone elbows the Captain of the Enterprise sharply in his side and the man jerks awake. First he eyes the blank-faced Mr. Spock sitting on his left and then, finding nothing amiss, looks to the right at McCoy. McCoy's facial expression is unchanged from the start of the seminar—that is, since the Captain fell asleep; the doctor appears to be concentrating deeply, arms crossed, feet planted wide, and lips firmly pressed together. He doesn't acknowledge Kirk.

Jim, always suspicious of this pose, leans into the man's space and begins, "Bones..."

Spock remarks, "Captain, please return your attention to the lectern."

Jim flops unhappily in his chair. He is at a loss to decide which one of them—McCoy or Spock—had poked him back into consciousness.

His midnight readings of the Klingon Warrior Handbook on how to sleep with one's eyes open (i.e. Chapter 4: How to Take a One-Minute Nap Between Killings) is finally paying off. He is certain he doesn't look to be dozing (as he has recorded himself during practice); no slack jaw, no snoring, except maybe some heavier relaxed breaths. Kirk has even tried the technique on the Bridge while "staring" straight ahead from his Captain's chair and not been found out. No one can tell the difference between his patient, alert face and his I'm-asleep-with-my-eyes-open face. It is a strategy he plans to use often to confuse his foes.

Except somebody poked him, when he was in the middle of good dream, and that makes him furious.

The Enterprise's Safety Coordinator drones on-stage at the front of the auditorium. "I am certain we can all agree phasers are not toys, even if set to stun and your ex looks quite funny as a drooling lump on the floor. Please settle relationship disputes without the abuse of Starfleet property, people. We have on-site _counselors_ for that sort of thing."

Kirk notes a sheepish female face or two in the crowd when he peers in the direction of the speaker's pointed look. Hmm, he hadn't considered a phaser as anything other than something to save his ass with. Then again, he supposes ex's can be the bitterest of enemies.

Jim rubs at his nose and sinks into his chair. "When's it over?" he whine-whispers to his Vulcan officer.

The cut of Spock's eyes is a disdainful _this is why I had reservations about your promotion to a captaincy_. The officer says instead, "I believe you should pay particular attention to the next topic of discussion, Captain."

McCoy breaks his silence to agree. "He's got a point, Jim."

Kirk searches for the seminar itinerary and, realizing he had used it to remove the gum stuck to the bottom of his boot, asks for Spock's. He skims the list.

 **Safety, the Enterprise, and You**  
5 minutes - Introduction: Why is Safety Important on a Starship?  
15 minutes - Common Examples of Un-safe Behavior  
\+ Mob-Panic During Red Alert  
\+ Picnicking in the Airlock (That Red Button is NOT Temperature Control)  
\+ Relations with Carnivorous Plants, Tentacle-Burn, Gravitational Field Foreplay, etc.  
\+ Improper Use of Work Areas, Tools, and Standard-Issue Weapons  
10 minutes - Injury Prevention and Helpful Safety Tips

The Captain frowns thoughtfully. "Work areas? Are they serious? Since when is sex on a desk a crime?"

The CMO remarks dryly, "This is why you shouldn't doze off at meetings, kid. Remember the ice-skating rink?"

"Yeah." Jim perks up. Then, "Say, is that going to be an annual thing? Should I invest in a pair of skates?"

"The rink was on the Observation Deck, Captain," the First Officer points out, no doubt expecting the Captain to understand the implied issue.

Jim blinks.

McCoy rolls his eyes and adds, "'Cause somebody disabled the deck's heating and turned on the sprinkler system." The doctor glances across Jim. "I thought you submitted the disturbance report, Spock."

"Last month," answers Mr. Spock shortly.

They look at Jim. Jim says, eyes fixed on the pamphlet, "I'll get to it." He thinks it might be in the stack he hid under his bed so he could prank his assigned yeoman. "Scout's honor!"

" _Scout_ , my sainted aunt," grunts McCoy. Then he slaps at Jim's leg hard, reminding him, "Hey, you'd better listen to this part, you blockhead!"

The Safety Coordinator is saying, "The committee has revised the safety gear requirements for recreational activities. Moving forward, any and all persons involved in strength training sessions, combat-related classes, and general sparring will use these helmets." Here the man lifts a blue insignia-ed helmet above his head for everyone to see.

Jim's mouth drops open. No way—he's not working out in a helmet!

The Captain jumps to his feet and demands over the angry outburst along the back wall (where Security is hanging out), "Who approved this—this _ridiculous thing?_ "

The Safety Coordinator looks surprised. "You did, sir."

He did no such— Then the realization hits him. Jim manages to say, voice strangled, "Carry on, Lieutenant," and sits down with haste before rounding on his evil CMO.

McCoy, it seems, is choking on laughter.

He hisses, "You said it was a petition to Starfleet Medical for more supplies. You said you would let me do that... _thing_ to you—" Jim colors in remembrance. To his left, Spock makes a tiny, suppressed sigh of annoyance. "—if I signed the stupid form!"

"Helmets were one of the supplies," McCoy defends, wiping at his eyes. "I just happened to argue they'd be a good idea to protect your and everybody else's idiot noggin while in the gym and copied the Safety Committee on the missive. They took to the idea like a duck to water," the doctor finishes proudly.

"But I had sex with you!"

"I had sex with _you_ ," corrects the doctor, "in ways I didn't necessarily want to have sex. I figured I ought to get some compensation out of it."

Spock interrupts, "This is not the appropriate time or place for this conversation."

Jim ignores him. "Why do we need helmets? I look stupid in a helmet!"

"You know what's stupid-looking, Jim? When I have a line of busted-up ensigns in my Sickbay because you like fighting dirty on the mat."

"I'm teaching them valuable skills," Kirk argues.

"You're reviving the market for gold teeth!"

"Gentlemen," Spock tries again.

"Fine, Bones, fine! We'll ALL wear helmets—hey, why not on the Bridge too?" he says sarcastically. "There could be a Romulan invasion any second. Or in the mess hall! I wouldn't want to slip on a banana peel and CRACK OPEN MY HEAD!"

Neither of them realize the auditorium has been silent for some minutes and people are listening to this argument raptly. The Safety Coordinator looks to his second-in-command, the Safety Hall Monitor, and says, "Write that down. Helmets to be worn EVERYWHERE by order of Captain Kirk."

The girl nods dutifully and scribbles it down in a handy PADD.

McCoy and Kirk have branched out to hand-slapping. Kirk is threatening to give his CMO a personal demonstration of a coma-inducing headlock. McCoy starts cracking his knuckles.

Spock stands up. "Is the seminar concluded?" he directs to the Safety Coordinator.

The man on stage, wise enough to interpret the First Officer's tone of voice correctly, replies, "Er, yes, Mr. Spock. I think I've covered the important points." He is pinned with a Vulcan stare until he adds at-large into the microphone, "Dismissed?" As people scramble out of their seats and pandemonium erupts, the poor coordinator has to remind them urgently, "Remember, fast walks, NO RUNNI—OH, somebody stop that man! Sir, that's a speaker cable, not a rope!"

Spock calmly approaches the stage; the disorganized, disobedient crowd parts for him on instinct. Spock thanks the Safety Coordinator for his diligent efforts to improve the work conditions of the ship. When the First Officer is asked "What about Dr. McCoy and Captain Kirk?" he only blinks.

For there is no need to reply. Currently the knocking-over-chairs tussle between the two senior officers of the Enterprise has transformed into lewd groping. It is clear, even to a Vulcan, they are only in imminent danger of a raunchy public display. And some crewmen have occupied a near-by half-circle of seats to watch. One of them offers to replicate popcorn.

Two men swing by the podium on a cable, one of them hanging upside-down by a trapped foot and crying. The Safety Coordinator and Safety Hall Monitor take off in pursuit of the pair. Spock clasps his hands behind his back and uses the backdoor exit, thereby escaping the exact moment when the red alert klaxons short-circuit and the crazy-happy auditorium devolves into, as noted prior in the seminar, mob-panic.

_-Fini_


	9. The Case of the Mondays, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the PI!Bones and cop!Jim 'verse. Mondays are still shit, according to McCoy.

McCoy peeks open the one eye which isn't swollen shut and grunts at the man staring him in the face.

"Bones?"

"Mondays are still shit," he snaps, irritated at life in general, but sadly the snap comes out as more of a drunken drawl. The docs have him on the potent pain killers, it seems. Must be why his face feels numb.

Kirk comprehends his mumbling apparently. "Technically today is Sunday."

"Fucking Pseudo-Monday."

In Georgia there wasn't this sort of problem—chasing crazy-ass art thieves across town into a midnight bar of bikers. His Georgia used to have a little thing called blue laws which ensured the bars didn't bother opening their doors on a God-fearing day. Not that McCoy is particularly religious, except on a Pseudo-Monday spent in the ER.

"I hear ya, Bones." Kirk grins, unmindful of his bloody nose.

 _That's all_ —a fucking bloody nose no one's told the bonehead to wipe. Maybe the prick-asses around here think that's McCoy's job but he'll be damned if he says anything. He isn't the kid's nanny after all.

Whereas Kirk came out of the brawl fairly unscathed, McCoy looks like he got jumped by an angry loan shark and a band of thugs then tossed under a Mack truck, which proceeded to run him over, back up, and repeat the process. When he thinks of how he actually got his face rearranged—and his dislocated shoulder—his drug haze clears like a shock of cold water.

"I'll kill that bastard!" snarls the private investigator. He kicks at the blanket covering his legs to emphasize his ire.

James Kirk's sigh is full of consternation. "Bones, I'm sure if Spock could see you, he'd feel bad."

McCoy's expression says his eyes would be bulging if they weren't so messed up. His left hand whips out and catches the front of Kirk's shirt, wrenches the man closer. "That asshole told them I was a stalker! Are you gonna take _his_ side, Jim?" The question is dangerous.

Jim seems to consider McCoy's bruised and bloodied face. "Definitely not." His voice drops into dark territory. "We're taking good care of those punks at the station, Bones. I left Sulu in charge."

McCoy's mouth stretches painfully at the corners when he smiles. Bastards are going to be pissing themselves in fear after a chat with Sulu. "Remind me later to take him out for a drink." His fingers loosen on the fabric of Kirk's shirt but the cop doesn't pull away.

"Bones," half-whispers Jim, leaning in. His lips trail lightly along the line of McCoy's stubbled jaw up to his ear, never mind that the curtain isn't drawn for privacy and if McCoy could see straight he'd bet dollars to dimes the emergency room nurses are hating him about now.

McCoy is told "Next time, don't mouth off to a group of Hell's Angels. Even if you are pissed they gave Spock a getaway ride. One of them could have put you in the ground. What would I do then?"

Probably gotten himself killed too, thinks McCoy. Jim does dumbass things like that.

McCoy still is not quite sure what it is Jim likes about him, or what this thing is they're attempting to build between them. And sometimes he thinks ought to regret letting that first date have a successor and then another and another. Before McCoy knew it, Kirk's buddies in the police station were eyeing him with something less than disdain or pity and more like respect. Apparently being a P.I. is laughable to most cops... until said P.I. starts dating their Captain.

Jim pulls away and re-tucks the hospital blanket around McCoy's legs. Then the man runs a hand through his hair and sighs again.

McCoy says, reading Jim's next words in his eyes, "I know. Get goin'. Precinct needs you, else they're no better than a bunch of monkeys sitting around picking off each other's fleas."

Kirk chuckles, winces, and McCoy vows to take a look at the man's sore ribs himself as soon as he is medically discharged from this hell hole. He doesn't trust any diagnosis he can't personally confirm.

Someone says "Where?" out in the hall.

McCoy's face may be busted up but his hearing is excellent. He catches that familiar voice, glances at Jim, and wonders if this upcoming scene is going to play out badly.

"Leo!" His ex-wife pauses within some feet of McCoy's bed.

McCoy ignores how stiff Jim suddenly is and slides into an upright position. His smile of greeting is more of a grimace. "Joss," he says. The events of the evening must be catching up with him because his shoulders slump with weariness. "I forgot to tell 'em to take your name off the contact list. Sorry about that."

"No," she says, "I'm glad you didn't. Are you all right?"

He is surprised she means it. Maybe the past couple of months apart has soothed over the rawness of their divorce.

Jocelyn thanks Jim when he finds an empty chair for her to sit in. Jim's eyes flick over to McCoy, questioning, and he tells the man gruffly, "Didn't I say get goin'?" Kirk nods, leaves.

For a brief moment, silence stretches awkwardly between McCoy and his ex-wife. Her fingers fidget with the clasp of her purse, a tell-tale sign of how uncomfortable she feels. He tells her quietly, "You didn't have to come."

Her answer is soft, somewhat bitter. "Once a cop's wife, always a cop's wife. It's a hard habit to break."

"I'm not a cop, Joss."

Her eyes have a bit of fire in them as she studies his battered face. "You act like you are." Her laugh is humorless. "We aren't even married anymore and I still find myself dreading to answer the phone." She puts a hand to her temple. Despairingly, "Oh, Leo."

His job is what ruined their marriage, and now he and Joss are just another statistic in someone's study. He doesn't blame her for wanting out, sick of worrying he may push his luck too far, may end up dead some day; but McCoy cannot change careers, not to save himself or to save them.

He rubs the pads of his fingers against the rough cotton of the blanket absently, notices his blunt nails are still flecked with dried blood. His blood.

"What can I say, Joss? You've heard it all." He adds anyway, "I'm sorry."

She admits for the first time since the divorce, "I'm sorry too." The woman sighs, sets her purse on the floor, and reaches over to fill a cup with ice water. She offers it to McCoy with the words, "The doctor says most of your wounds are superficial but they want to keep you in for observation tonight. Do you need a ride in the morning?"

This fragile truce between them isn't something he wants to break. He shakes his head. "Kirk's already claimed the honor."

"Oh." Then hesitantly, "Is—Is he—?"

She can't say the words but he understands anyway. "I don't know," McCoy tells his ex-wife honestly. "We're... partners. In some ways." More easily, "We're still tryin' to catch—"

"Spock," she finishes with a wry smile. "Have you ever considered he isn't meant to be caught, Leo?"

McCoy thumps the bedrail. "Hell no! He's makin' the city officials look like a bunch of bumbling fools! He—"

She laughs with real amusement this time. McCoy gives her his best glare. "You 'n Jim seem to think something's funny," he accuses. "Ain't nothing funny about a criminal on the loose."

"Oh baby," she says, "I'm laughing because you don't change. You're like a dog with a bone."

Which was Jim's explanation for nicknaming him Bones. What a God damn annoyance Jim is.

"I _am_ going to get Spock," he insists.

"And do what exactly once you have him, Leo? Force him to apologize for calling you an amateur detective?"

McCoy grits his teeth. The bastard hadn't done it to his face, either, but had sent after their first, lamentably embarrassing encounter(the squad had accidentally tear-gassed themselves, thereby allowing a leisurely escape for the thief) an arrogant note to the press pointing out the flaws of the local law enforcement's tactics. Included in that note was a personal jibe which had read _Greetings to Officer Kirk. If you intend to apprehend me within a suitable timeframe as you so boast, might I suggest you re-train your newly acquired amateur sidekick? Mr. McCoy lacks a certain stealth to succeed at his work. Regards, Spock._

Joss is shaking her head at his incensed expression. She stands and leans in to kiss an unbruised spot on his cheek. "I need to go. Stay out of trouble, please?"

He nods, more serious. "I'll do the best I can."

She takes her purse in hand and gives him a secretive little smile. "Do tell that Captain of yours he doesn't need to run a background check on me."

"Jim wouldn't..." McCoy trails off at the disbelieving arch of her eyebrow.

"I'm a woman, dear," she says sweetly. "I know jealousy when I see it."

McCoy slouches back into his pillow, grumping, "He's an idiot."

She says nothing, merely keeps smiling, and leaves her ex-husband to contemplate the mystery that is James Tiberius Kirk.

_-Fini_


	10. Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Western fun.

"He's so bowlegged he couldn't pen a hog in a ditch," one man observes, hat tipped low to obscure his face.

"Eh," mutters the companion at his elbow with a careless shrug, who then aims a mouthful of tobacco at a spittoon but misses by several inches, adding a new wet patch to the stained boards of the porch. "Ain't got no horse, though."

"That right?"

"Ain't got nothin' seems like. He done rode in on the rail, I heard."

As the stranger passes by the saloon with a purposeful stride, eyes fixed forward, the two men casually rearrange position so they can keep him in sight until he decides to step off of the main thoroughfare.

"Takes money to get on the rail," concludes the man in a slow drawl. His fingers ghost the edge of his low-slung belt. The gun halter is empty.

"Unless yer southbound for the jail yard. Them rides is free," adds the other fellow as he digs in his pocket for a new bunch of tobacco. Finding none, he curses. Finding no money either with which to visit the general store for a new supply, he begins to eye the newcomer too. "I reckon his boots are worth sumthin'. Whatcha think, Coz?"

"We'll see."

"Hey, you!" interrupts a loud voice. "Get the hell off my property!"

The pair look at the saloon keeper holding a shotgun. The taller of the two relaxes against the railing of the porch, insolence in every line of his body. "You ain't got no deed on this place."

"Get going," insists the saloon keeper, "or I'll have the sheriff down here."

"Sheriff's out riding." The dark-haired man narrows his eyes. "'Sides, we ain't causing no trouble."

"You is trouble, McCoy - you and your ugly cousin both!" He raises the shotgun to waist height. "Next time I won't ask. I'll just put a bullet in your belly."

McCoy raises his hands in a gesture of placation. He nudges his cousin with his boot. "C'mon. Let's give the man what he wants." As they step off the saloon porch and into the dust of the street, he says to the agitated young man at his side, "Calm down, kid."

"Fuckin' old bird! We wasn't fuckin' doin' nothing! 'N who's he calling ugly?"

"He'll get his" comes the lazy drawl. "First, we oughta greet the new fella in town."

McCoy's cousin wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Maybe this one got more'an the last. Didn't get much offa _him_."

"Foreigners either got nothin', or too much and sense to stay East if they do." He laughs, and it's a low, cold sound. "What kinda name was Spock anyhow?"

"Foreigner one," replies the cousin, temper switching over to excitement at the prospect of a little fun. "He's gone thataway."

They turn into an alley between two buildings rank with the smell of piss and rot. McCoy passes into a shadow on the left side of the alley, the man at his back doing the same. The spurs on their boots jangle softly in time to their steps.

"What's his name?" McCoy asks, because he likes to know what to carve on the inside of his belt when the hunting is done.

"He's a James. Kirk James... or James Kirk. Guess it don't matter much."

"Guess it don't," agrees McCoy. But he likes the ring of Kirk much more than James.

At the end of the alleyway is the stranger, relieving himself against the wall. "Howdy, Kirk," calls McCoy, "Case ya didn't know... there's a fee to be paid for traveling through my town."

The sound of pissing stops. The tow-headed fellow turns his head slightly in their direction, not bothering to hide the slow curve of his mouth. In place of words comes the distinct click of a gun cocking.

A fightin' one, McCoy thinks with satisfaction, the knuckles of his right hand cracking inside his leather glove as he forms a fist.

About damn time.

_-Fini_


	11. Awesome Ideas Come from Awesome Brains (AKA Jim's Awesome Brain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with Supernatural fandom. Dean and Jim are attempting to avoid certain people - and get caught anyway.

"Dude, maybe we should go back..." A man says this as his foot hesitates to step down from the street curb. He is fully prepared to retrace his steps to the quiet, dark coffee shop from whence the pair came. Being out on the open street makes him twitchy for his gun, which he sadly left behind in the trunk of his beloved Impala.

Jim reaches behind him without looking and snags the back of Dean's jacket, propelling Dean forward. They cross the street together. "We're hiding in plain sight, man."

The older Winchester brother rolls his eyes expressively. "Just so you know—hiding in plain sight only works if you are ugly. Like Sam." His voice grows thoughtful. "Then again, Sammy has the gargantuan thing going. Gargantuan ugly is hard _not_ to notice."

Jim cuts his eyes at Dean. "Do you always talk about your brother this much?"

" _What?_ "

"Hey," Kirk lifts his hands in a calm-down-buddy gesture at Dean's tone. "I mean, we've been hanging out... about an hour? You do a lot of talking about Sam."

There is a smirk in Dean's voice as he counters, "Is your pot dissing my kettle for being black? You're all Bones this and Bones that. At least I can claim Sam's my annoying little brother. What's your excuse?"

"Bones is—" Jim pauses, frowns. He tries again. "Bones is—"

"—a friend with benefits?" supplies Dean.

Kirk glares. "No! It's platonic, strictly platonic between us."

"Damn," says the other man with a sad shake of his head. "That's unfortunate for you then. He looks like a great lay."

Jim stops walking and crowds into Dean's personal space. "And how do you know what Bones looks like?" he demands.

Dean lifts his eyebrows and points off to the side. "I'm assuming he's the guy shadowing my brother."

Kirk opens and closes his mouth, turns to get a good look just as somebody ducks around the corner of a building. The glimpse is fleeting but it is definitely McCoy Jim decides.

"Shit" is Jim's succinct summarization.

Dean says dryly, "You didn't tell him we were meeting, did you?"

Jim shoves a hand through his short hair. "Fuck no. He'd have lectured about..." Jim clears his throat. "Let's just say he wouldn't have agreed with the idea."

"Because he's a jealous BFF?"

 _Because we're fucking time travelers, Jim!_ bitches a strange Bones-like voice in his head. _Don't get buddy-buddy with anybody in this century!_ The bitching fades to a simmering grumble. _Oh God, Spock's going to have a cow over last night when he finds out._

Jim isn't sorry. How often is he going to get to visit the first decade of the 21st century anyway? A little bar-hopping never hurt anyone... And he shared drinks with some fun people—like Dean Winchester. Maybe Bones would have liked it better if he had been invited.

Jim indulges in a long mental sigh and fixes his attention on Dean again. "So why's Sam trailing us?"

Dean waves a hand nonchalantly. "Oh, he thinks there's something weird about you." Dean grins but there is a hard look in his eyes Jim finds disturbing. "I'm just proving a point—that you're not _weird_."

"And if I was?" Jim wants to know, mainly out of curiosity.

Dean looks him over and sizes him up, Jim thinks, as the Klingon commander of a battle cruiser would assess the Enterprise.

"I could handle it," Dean concludes, still nonchalant.

Jim turns on the charm wattage of his grin. "I'm definitely not weird. All human here." He pats himself, meaning it in a joking way, but Dean Winchester stiffens.

Dean's belated answering grin is equally charming—exactly the kind that had attempted to entice the pretty bartender last night (but she had rejected Dean, as she had rejected Kirk not ten minutes earlier, and so the two men shared a consolation drink and thereby discovered they had many things in common besides a penchant for flirting with anyone in a low-cut top).

The grin is also equally fake.

Jim suddenly feels naked without his phaser. He decides to continue his stroll along the sidewalk, half-hoping Dean—who is much more dangerous than the first impression Jim had—does not follow. But Dean matches his stride.

"What's good to eat in this town?"

"Wouldn't know," responds Jim's companion. "Sam and I are passing through."

Really?

Jim offers, "So are Bones and I. We're actually scheduled to ship out tomorrow."

"Military?"

He chuckles. "Something like that."

For a long minute, they walk in silence. Jim has no idea where he is going or how much further the street goes before it runs out of sidewalk or even if Bones is still following him. That last part he wants to be true, quite fiercely. Bones is good at dragging Jim out of a dogfight when it comes down to it; and McCoy is also usually great at talking sense into the guy trying to flatten Jim's face with a fist.

"Burgers." Dean's voice interrupts Jim's thoughts.

Jim repeats, "Burgers?"

"Yeah. As in a big fat hamburger with onion rings and chili. I want one. What about you?"

Jim's stomach growls, overriding his apprehension. "They have jalapenos in this century, right?"

Dean gives him a funny look. "Yeahhh..."

With a new spring to his step, Jim announces loudly enough for the whole street to hear, "Jalapenos are awesome! I bet fifty credits I can eat more than you can!"

Dean looks momentarily uncertain if Jim is talking to him (Jim is yelling for Bones' benefit) but undoubtedly decides _why not?_ "You're on, dude. And you're going down." Then, after a pause, "You meant fifty bucks, right?"

Jim blinks. "Uh, yeah." Crap, where's Spock for a quick money-of-the-century conversion when he needs one? Jim admits there is some truth to McCoy's labeling of Vulcans as walking calculators.

Dean slaps a hand onto Jim's shoulder. "You'd better have that cash, Kirk. I always win."

This is why he likes Dean. "No way. _I_ always win," he corrects.

In charity, with their most pressing doubts of one another cast aside for the time being, the two men head for the fast food restaurant peeking around the corner of the street.

At the burger-joint's counter, he orders three burgers and snags a bottle of jarred jalapenos from the hesitant hands of the cashier for their bet. Dean asks about the third burger he sets aside, and Jim explains, "For Bones." Then, referencing the salad on Dean's tray, "For Sam?"

"The idiot freaks out over grease."

"Tell me about it," quips Kirk. Hmm, it seems Sam and McCoy have a lot in common too.

Dean lovingly puts six peppers on his first burger. Jim does the same. The door chime to the establishment announces the arrival of newcomers. Jim grins broadly in Bones' direction, enjoying the horrified look on the doctor's face as Jim takes his first bite of a jalapeno-covered hamburger.

Everything sort of blurs together for the next minute.

Over the white noise of his own choking fit, Jim hears someone say in response to the sound of heaving, "Jesus, Dean, at least wait until you're at the trash can!"

A hand lands on the side of his neck. "Hold still, kid!"

But he cannot stop flailing. _It burns!_

Then there is a sharp stab of pain in his neck and, seconds afterward, Jim can finally make out a figure with his watery eyes. Leonard "Bones" McCoy is saying (to Sam, Jim thinks), "Do you see what I mean? Can't leave 'im alone for a goddamned second!"

He would protest but Bones has done something to numb his tongue. He idly hopes Dean gets the same treatment. Just so things are fair.

Bones is complaining in his ear, "Spock is going to kill us, fuckin' nerve-pinch us to death or something. I really hate you, Jim."

However, to Jim, that beloved tone of McCoy's voice means anything but hate; in fact, Jim starts wondering if his new friend Dean doesn't have a point or two about his feelings for Bones.

He puts his arm around his doctor on the pretense of needing support (though he is sort of wobbly from the jalapeno attack—stupid peppers just _jumped_ into his mouth, he swears). Bones does not protest.

Maybe something good will come out of this time-traveling business after all.

_-Fini_


	12. In the Keeping of a Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crack!fic turned frightening. Bones is trying to cope with an unwanted presence in his life. Warning for the paranormal.

Leonard buries Grandfather Tiberius' soul in the attic. He puts it deep in a cardboard box full of mothballs and discarded clothes, but it refuses to stay there. This is when he begins to realize there may be no way to win against a man who is long dead.

He is making his usual morning cup of coffee when Jim comes into the kitchen, papers in hand and wearing a dark blue cardigan. Leonard freezes, unaware the coffee is now spreading over the kitchen counter rather than into his mug.

Jim says sharply, "Bones! Hey!"

Leonard jumps back and discards the half-empty coffeepot in the drain board.

His lover grabs a dish towel and tries to staunch the waterfall of dark liquid flowing onto the tiled floor. Jim is smiling, amused. "Wow, I must look extra hot today if you forgot about your coffee."

In brown loafers and a button-up cardigan from at least a century ago? Hardly.

Then again, Leonard will admit Jim usually appeals to him wearing almost anything, be it leather pants or sleeping pajamas with feet. That's the upside of being in-love.

He turns his mind to the more pressing matter. "Where did you get that cardigan?"

The question earns him a strange look. Jim wrings the dish towel over the sink as he says, "Where I usually get it... from my closet." The man pats his hands dry on his pants then lovingly strokes the corded pattern of the cardigan.

It's all Leonard can do not to rip the evil thing off Jim and try to shove it down the garbage disposal. He mutters instead, despite knowing his suggestion is a lost cause, "I think your brown jacket would match better."

Jim kisses Leonard on the mouth and scoots around him, re-collecting his armful of papers. "I'm going to be late. See you for dinner?"

He nods slightly.

At the sound of the front door opening and closing, McCoy sags against the kitchen counter. He pays no mind to the possibility that a few remaining drops of spilled coffee might be staining the back of his nightshirt. There's nothing else he can try except outside help. Maybe this time... He sighs, strides over to the phone on the wall, and calls the number of the expert his pastor had given him.

~~~

Jim is expecting to find only Leonard and a table set for two. Leonard had thought it best not to warn him in advance but now he feels slightly guilty as he watches Jim slowly drop a set of car keys into a decorative bowl on a side table and hesitate to enter the living room.

Leonard steps forward to assure him, "Hey, Jim, I'm glad you're home. This is—"

The stranger on the couch rises.

"—Mr. Spock."

Jim nods to Mr. Spock with a polite "Hello."

Mr. Spock inclines his head. "Greetings, Mr. Kirk." The stranger says nothing more, looking to Leonard to explain the situation.

This is the hard part. "Jim..." he begins, squashing down nervousness. There is no good way to say what needs to be said, and Leonard is awful with words on a good day. He blurts out, "Mr. Spock is an exorcist."

He puts a hand to his face and murmurs "Oh God" when Jim says, floored, " _What?_ "

Now Jim moves fully into the room, crowding close to McCoy. "Bones, what's going on?" His wide-eyed gaze travels over to the tall, silent man in the dark overcoat, occupying their living room like a shadow. "We have a—a poltergeist?"

Leonard makes a noise in the back of his throat (since he'd been specifically skirting around that word) and gestures feebly at Jim.

Jim looks down at himself. "Me?"

Leonard shakes his head, mute.

"I assume the item in question is the cardigan Mr. Kirk is currently wearing. Am I correct, Mr. McCoy?" interjects a flat, professional voice.

Leonard cannot decide which is worse: moving in the direction of the unnerving Mr. Spock (though Leonard is the one who begged him to solve the problem) or sidling next to Jim but within the reach of the cardigan. It looks pleasant enough on Jim but...

"Jim, will you let Mr. Spock look at it?"

Kirk's head swivels back and forth between McCoy and Mr. Spock, mouth gaping. "Bones, it—it's a sweater!" He places his hand protectively over his middle. "My grandfather's sweater!"

Leonard pleads, "Please take it off, Jim," at the same time Mr. Spock explains, "The cardigan is haunted."

Jim grabs Leonard's hand and backs away, tugging McCoy with him. "Bones, I don't know what this guy told you or—or how he even got in—"

"The cardigan is harboring the spirit of your deceased grandfather."

"—but we'll call the police!" threatens Kirk at Mr. Spock. He takes a stance in front of Leonard. "Run, Bones, and call the police!"

Mr. Spock the shadow remains, unmoved.

Leonard steels himself and places a calming hand on Jim's shoulder (on the cardigan—God, it's mocking, he knows it) and says, "Jim, I called Mr. Spock and asked him to help us. You don't understand."

"Why would you do that?" Jim switches from defensive to almost betrayed.

"I did it for you!" Leonard cries. "Jim, please, that _thing_ —it's changin' you!"

"No," denies his lover. "It's a family heirloom—the only thing I have left of Gramps! Bones, you're crazy—"

"I am not!" he insists hotly, struck by the accusation. He is not crazy. He is working hard every day not to go crazy. "I've tried seven times, SEVEN TIMES, to get rid of that thing and it never goes away! Hell, I even thought I might have been too harsh when I donated it to Goodwill—"

Jim's expression turns to horror.

"—so I tried to give your grandpa a decent place in the attic. His old hunter's cap was up there! Why couldn't the damned thing have been happy with that?"

"Gentlemen," Mr. Spock tries to interrupt.

Jim squares off against Leonard and demands, "What else did you do to my Tiberius?"

Leonard crosses his arms. "Do you see, Jim? You gave it a name!" He says to the exorcist, "And that's not the worst of it. Do you know Jim's eyes used to be brown?"

Jim blinks his vividly blue eyes.

"And sometimes at night I wake up to find him staring out the window in that ratty thing. If I ask him what he's doing, he'll start talking about the Blitz from fucking WORLD WAR II!"

"Bones," whispers Jim, pale.

Leonard puts a hand over his eyes and drags in a breath. "I'm sorry but I can't take it anymore. I want my Jim back."

"Bones, it's okay, I'm right here." Jim reaches for him but Leonard cannot bear to be touched by the body encased in _it_.

A kettle shrills like a siren in the background.

Tea. Oh, he'd forgotten about Mr. Spock's tea.

He wipes at his eyes, half-whispering to the man he hopes can save them all, "Please. Get him back for me." His hands make a helpless gesture. Mr. Spock nods solemnly, and that nod relieves some of the terrible pressure weighing on McCoy. He straightens up and tells both men, "I'll get us something to drink."

"Thank you, Mr. McCoy. I will—converse a moment with Mr. Kirk, if that is acceptable."

He looks Mr. Spock in the eyes. "All right but remember what I told you."

The man nods again.

Jim stands wordless and wane in the lamplight of the room. His head is bowed.

Leonard retreats, needing time to get himself in hand for the task to come. Jim may seem defeated but Mr. Spock had said earlier that the spirit, even seemingly benign, will resist letting go of its hold on the living. Leonard knows, quite well, how true this is.

The large house seems emptier than usual, darker—too dark—now that the sun has set. A bulb in the hallway flickers. He should check it, make sure it isn't loose, he thinks.

Leonard prepares four cups of steaming tea because he accidentally ruins one of them. His hands won't stop shaking. He is about to lift the tray bearing the cups and a side dish of crackers when a loud crash echoes like a gunshot through the house.

His heart almost stops.

"Jim?"

Silence.

His muscles don't want to loosen up but he leaves the kitchen anyway, pulled as always by the invisible tether of his caring. He still worries for his Jim. Still. Because he cannot stop loving him.

Jim is standing at the end of the hall with his shirt rumpled and stained.

"Jim?" Leonard repeats, approaching him. "Is something wrong?"

It's the look on Jim's face that halts him halfway down the hall. A long, awful moment passes before Leonard accepts that the stains on Jim's shirt are too wet, too bright to be anything but blood.

"Bones." Jim's fingers are worrying the end of cardigan's sleeves, leaving red smears on the fabric. "Bones, I can't give it up."

Leonard's ears are buzzing. He sways, plants a hand against the wall to keep upright. "Oh God..." He moans, sinking to his knees beside the wall, and puts his hands over his face.

Jim won't remember this in the morning. He never does.

Leonard will painstakingly scrub the stains out of the cardigan and dig another grave in the backyard by moonlight. He would throw the damned cardigan in with the body but he's tried that before. Jim will be wearing it in the morning again, regardless.

Kirk—Tiberius—drifts past him to the kitchen, saying, "Did I hear the kettle? A cup of tea would be nice. Didn't have that on the battlefield, only what the Germans kept in jars."

Leonard shudders and gives no reply. Overhead, the flickering light bulb dies out, sending the hallway into darkness.

_-Fini_


	13. The Case of the Mondays, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mondays are no fun but when spent alone? Even worse.

McCoy swallows the liquid fire and shoves his empty glass away. The bartender picks it up as McCoy snaps, "Gimme another" but the man just shakes his head solemnly with a "No can-do."

The P.I. isn't belligerent-drunk yet to start swinging his fists so he just scowls at the bartender's audacity. "I got money," he points out. "You got booze. That's a fair trade in my book, pal."

The bartender turns away with the words, "Sorry, but I have my orders. Two is your limit tonight."

He is taken aback. Limit? What fucking limit? There is only one person dumb enough to limit McCoy's alcohol consumption.

And the fucker isn't here.

Leonard slumps farther over the bar counter and glares at a bowl of peanuts.

This isn't the first time he and Jim have had a spat, he knows, but it's definitely the longest one in the history of their relationship. He's sleeping out of his office (damn fucking couch is murder on his back) and Jim is—shit, Jim isn't around. Probably pulling midnight shifts at the precinct.

By now, one of them was supposed to have caved and sought out the other to make amends.

Well, it isn't going to be him! Leonard thinks furiously, swiping at an errant lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. He isn't the one with the gall. That's all Jim's doing.

All hail pseudo-suffering-by-myself-Mondays. The fact it is Thursday and every day this week has been a pseudo-Monday makes him want to drown himself. And the bartender isn't willing to play along.

Stupid pseudo-Monday.

He must have muttered that aloud because there is a waitress at his elbow looking very fed-up with him. Maybe she is. He has been in this same bar every night for two weeks.

McCoy was so mad at Jim for the first few nights he tried to pick her up. She politely declined his first attempt (he really was a slurring drunk then) but thereafter began to turn him down with growing annoyance. The fifth—and final—time he had propositioned her, she almost crushed his fingers when she slammed his refilled drink down onto the table.

"Stop being a jackass," she had snapped to his face. "You've got somebody, McCoy, so go home to him and quit looking for trouble."

Maybe it isn't the best idea to wallow in his anger and misery in the bar he and Jim often frequented together.

McCoy carefully and subtly leans away from the waitress as she empties her tray of dirty glasses and takes the orders the bartender is sliding her way. He is kind of frightened of her now (and will never understand why Kirk likes to flirt with her). The woman's beautiful, yeah, but a viper.

He is surprised when she turns to him before collecting her tray and taps his shoulder with a long, red-lacquered nail.

"Booth near the back," she says.

"What?"

The woman rolls her eyes. "There's a fellow in the back who wants to talk to you." This time she shoves at his shoulder. "So get your lazy, depressed ass off this stool. It's for customers only."

He frowns. "I am a customer."

"Not according to your friend." Her smile turns wicked. "You've reached your drink limit for tonight, McCoy."

His head whips around toward the booths along the far wall but the lighting is too poor to make out faces, only profiles. The profile he sees speaks of dignified authority.

McCoy is a private investigator for a reason: he likes poking his nose into other people's business and, more than that, he likes a good mystery. The waitress would have mentioned Jim by name. It cannot be Jim, so... He is striding over to the booth without a second's thought, his anger forgotten, his misery shoved away.

The man in the shadowed booth is definitely _not_ Kirk. Not by a long shot.

McCoy's mouth drops open, just briefly, before his brain can catch up to, and make sense of, his disbelief.

"Please be seated," says the deep, professional voice of the city's most wanted criminal.

"Spock!" he gasps then lurches around to look at the rest of the oblivious bar with his heart pounding erratically in his chest. A shout is working its way up his throat (Sweet fucking Jesus, somebody call the police, it's him!—CALL KIRK!) when long fingers shoot out of the darkened corner and yank him into the booth.

"Do not test my patience, Mr. McCoy." Spock has the cultured, flat tone of a wealthy, if annoyed man—which, considering what Spock steals, means the rich part is probably true. The bastard must have at least three fat bank accounts in the Cayman Islands by now.

A rush of adrenaline punches through Leonard's veins and he finds himself leaning forward with eager enthusiasm. "I didn't think you were this stupid, Spock! You do realize you just handed yourself over to me, right?"

Leonard has the distinct impression the man is amused.

"You base your assumption on one truth, Mr. McCoy: that you can apprehend me. I must remind you, however, your truth has never come to pass—nor shall it. I do not intend to be caught."

He's always full of such arrogant bullshit! "You listen here, you over-sized gimp!" McCoy stabs his finger at the shadowed thief. "You're the bad guy 'n I'm the good guy. I _always_ win! So you'd better start praying for a miracle 'cause you're under arrest, Spock."

Leonard digs around in his trench coat pockets then curses the fact he doesn't carry a pair of handcuffs. If Jim was here—

"Damn it!" He thumps his fist on the table for emphasis. Truthfully, though, he is more pissed at the moment that Jim _isn't_ here rather than his own lack of foresight. Where's a cop when a guy needs one?

Well, he'll just have to make do. Maybe punch Spock's lights out or something and duck-tape his evil ass to a chair. Can it be that easy?

He doubts so. "Shit and Goddamn it all to hell!"

"Are you finished?" inquires the criminal dryly, unimpressed by McCoy's colorful language.

"No." He snarls for good measure, "Holy mother-fucking shit monkeys!" and strips off his cumbersome coat. Can't pin a thief with his arms all tied up.

Spock likes small talk, it seems. "I fail to understand what Kirk finds appealing about your crude nature."

"Ain't none of your damned business, Spock. All right now, ease out of the booth nice and slow. No tricks."

Spock lifts an eyebrow. "Is it not wise to have a weapon at this stage of demand?"

Leonard's registered gun is in his office desk collecting dust. It's not like he expected Spock to hand himself over on a silver platter tonight. Damn but Fate is really biting at his ass these days.

Spock seems to understand well enough how unprepared McCoy is. Leonard is informed, "I cannot oblige your desire to arrest me at this time." Then the man steeples his fingers and adds thoughtfully, "Though I will admit a tete-a-tete between us might be a fascinating turn of events. Shall I arrange something similar in the future?" His eyes are sharp. "Perhaps to appease the public on Kirk's behalf? They appear disillusioned with his ineptness to catch a single thief."

If that is bait, Leonard locks onto it like an angry trout. "Jim's twice the fucking man you are, you piece of—"

"Kirk is nothing without a competent enemy" comes the quick counter. "He would idle in boredom and abandon his career, thereby depriving the city of his talent, or he would engage in a risk which would result in his untimely death. I," Spock says with a touch of hardness, "keep him in a stable line of work."

Leonard's mind boggles. "You're crazy!"

"Only to those with limited vision." A pause. "This does bring me to the point of tonight's meeting, Mr. McCoy."

Now he wants a drink. A large one. "What's that?" McCoy says, wondering if he can flag down the waitress. Maybe slip her a note which says _Notorious art thief present. Big reward. Get my dumbass boyfriend over here!_

"Your relationship with Kirk—" begins Spock.

Leonard snaps to attention.

"—is under duress. Repair it."

His mouth opens but nothing comes out except a strangled noise.

Spock blinks. "Might I suggest you apologize to him?"

Then Leonard is able to think again. "What—NO!—I mean, are you off your rocker, man? Keep your pointy nose out of my personal life!"

Of all the... what is _wrong_ with this fool? He isn't _normal_. Leonard had high hopes he was dealing with the typical crime-spree of a megalomaniac; Spock is turning out to be like no bad guy McCoy has ever encountered before.

"I understand Kirk was interested in meeting your family, a suggestion which you vehemently declined. I admit I am at a loss to determine the basis of your rejection: my sources indicate you come from a stable, if somewhat traditionalist home—"

Spock is still talking. God _damn_.

Leonard lifts his hand. "Would you shut up already, Dr. Phil? My... _thing_ with Kirk is fine! And I'll repeat, none of your damned business."

Spock fixes an intense look on McCoy. "I have accomplished three successful ventures in a quarter of a month, Mr. McCoy. I _alerted_ you to two of them, yet you and your partner failed to present yourselves at the appropriate times and places."

He can't mean... "You're upset because we didn't show up to chase you?" There's a tickle in his throat. He thinks it might be hysterical laughter. "God, Spock, don't you criminal masterminds get a manual or somethin'? You are not supposed to want the cops on your ass."

"Then what is the point?"

Leonard frowns. "Point?"

Spock makes a small noise which might be a suppressed sigh. "The point of engaging in criminal activity."

His eye twitches. "To make money. _Unlawfully._ "

Okay, he is not actually debating this with Spock. That would make him crazy too.

"I have no need of money," Spock says.

Leonard stares at him. "So you're leading us around by the noses for fun?"

The art thief tilts his head. "Is that how it seems to you? Interesting."

What else can McCoy think? Spock does things like pay for his hospital bill after the run-in with the Hell's Angels (technically it was the bastard's fault) and sending him prepaid lessons for boxing and martial arts (which was damned insulting, though Jim had thought it was funny and encouraged McCoy to go; Kirk, on the other hand, often receives free steaks from Spock and _that_ is ridiculous and fucked-up to Leonard). If Spock isn't laughing up his sleeve at them, McCoy would have to conclude he is concerned and... friendly.

No. Leonard cannot wrap his head around that.

A feminine voice interrupts their conversation. (McCoy will be shocked later to realize he had a bonafide conversation with Spock.)

"I called him as you suggested."

McCoy looks up at the smirking waitress. "Called who?" He has not had time to scribble that note.

"Your annoying partner," she explains impatiently, hand on her hip.

Spock thanks her graciously. "Your assistance is appreciated, Nyota." He presents her with a ridiculously large clip of cash.

She pockets the money without bothering to count it. (Leonard would have counted it. Can't trust that underhanded swindler to deal fairly at anything.)

"If it means Mr. Mopey here isn't pestering me, then I'm glad to help, sweetie." Someone calls for her, and the waitress sighs. "Back to the mundane then. Oh and, Leonard? Tell Jim you're sorry."

McCoy watches her walk away. When he turns back to Spock, the man is pulling on a pair of gloves. He says hastily, "Where do you think you're going?"

Spock doesn't bother to look at him. "The hour is late, Mr. McCoy. I must return to my headquarters and confirm the details of my next... outing. You will be informed of those details shortly, I suspect." When he slips out of the booth and stands, the darkness of the bar seems to accommodate him by increasing. Leonard would shiver, except he hates looking weak to anybody but Jim.

Spock finally turns his gaze on Leonard. "Can I presume you will tailor your schedule accordingly this time?"

Leonard narrows his eyes. "You can bet on it."

Spock nods. He moves away but pauses to say, as if it has just occurred to him, "Your skill is improving, Mr. McCoy." Then Spock leaves, slipping fully into the shadows and disappearing through a back door of the bar.

For some reason, Leonard cannot make himself get up and follow the bastard. He just... can't. So he puts his head down on the table and hates himself for being an idiot.

Did he really mess things up with Jim?

Time passes, maybe minutes, maybe a half hour. It isn't until a familiar voice calls him that Leonard has the heart to put aside his unhappy lethargy.

"Bones?"

That jerks his head up like a puppet's.

He looks at Kirk. Kirk returns the partly grateful, partly petrified stare then slowly sinks to a seat opposite of Leonard at the booth. No one comes over to disturb them so, in the ensuing silence, Leonard has time to assess the man. Jim's stubble is almost as heavy as McCoy's and the dark circles under his eyes speak of long sleepless nights. He seems worn. And hurting, too, more so than Leonard.

But it is the dullness in Jim's eyes which strikes Leonard the hardest.

He swallows, feeling sick.

God, he did fuck up, kind of bad. Spock knew it. Uhura knew it. Probably everybody knows it except him, until now.

The only way to right this wrong is to start by saying "I'm so fucking sorry, Jim." Leonard does, hoping against hope that Jim still loves him enough to forgive him.

_-Fini_


	14. The Case of the Mondays, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy's late night ramblings have a purpose.

"It was the black cloud of a pseudo-Monday…"

"Bones, it _is_ Monday."

"Shut up, Jim. I'm storytelling here."

"In the middle of the night?" A pause. "To who? What, a light bulb?"

"Not the light bulb, you idiot! Up there—the surveillance bug."

A longer pause ensues. "… Why would our bedroom be bugged, Bones?"

"Jim," comes McCoy's voice, exasperated, "you just don't _know_. Spock's probably got live feed in the bathroom and trackers under our cars and back-end webcam access—where are you going?"

"To put on some clothes. Holy _shit_."

"A bit too late by now, Jim boy. I bet he's seen it all, and I bet it don't impress him either."

Somebody snarls in the background. "Why are you just lying there? How are you _okay_ with being watched? Put on some pants."

There is the tell-tale rumble of McCoy's deep chuckle. "Why do you think I flip off all the kitchen appliances? If Spock wants to look at my lily-white ass, let him. _Bastard._ Now where was I? Yeah, that's right—recounting a story. I hope you're listening, you son-of-a-bitch. Like I said, _it was a black cloud of a pseudo-Monday…_ "

~~~

It was a black cloud of a pseudo-Monday and I was playing darts with the latest newspaper clipping of a certain thief's ugly face tacked to my office wall. Two points for the shirt collar; ten points for the neck; and a hundred points for one of the bastard's eyeballs.

It'd been a slow day, and I was suffering under the ineptitude of my lazy assistant, Muggles. He's a die-hard Harry Potter fan so I didn't have a say-so in what I got to call him unless I wanted coffee I could tar a roof with. It's a damn name for a fat Persian cat in the care of a blue-haired old lady, 'n I'm no old lady. Neither is Jones—I mean, _Muggles_ —a cat.

He's still a weird fucker though. Weirdest fucker to ever make a cup of Joe that would get angels in Heaven to weep with joy. After the last assistant quit, I was lucky to find a replacement, what with the new income tax joint opening around the corner. Seems being a tax preparer pays more decently than I ever could—which is probably the damn truth. I pay shit 'cuz I make shit.

I'm gettin' off track here.

It'd been slow. I was bored. I was throwing pointy objects at Spock's face.

Then my office phone rang.

I wasn't gonna pick it up on the first ring, of course, but I did yell "HURRY AND GET THE DAMN PHONE!" to the new assistant.

I'm pretty sure he was laying a rigor-mortis curse—shut _up_ , Jim, was I supposed to read all ten fucking books? OKAY, SEVEN, Jesus, who died about made you a Harry Potter mogul?— _avada kedavra_ curse or what the fuck ever on my head to torture me to death—what, Jim, what! CRUCIO, fine! Killing curse does not equal torture curse, got it. God _damn_. Quit the spazzing eye, you weirdo. I don't _care_ that you're president and Goddamn-know-it-all of Muggles' book club. So help me, I just want to tell my damn story!

The _phone rang_ and Muggles was _pissed_ about me ordering him around and, anyway, he answered the call.

It was a new client, and—get this—a client NOT associated with any asshole art thief. Why the fuck do you send me business anyway, Spock? I can get CLIENTS on my OWN. And the last one gave me TIP for finding his dog, like I'm some damn ship's porter!

Okay, okay. Moderating my breathing cuz my boyfriend says I have to. Jesus, it's like having another momma. And stop poking me. Go to bed. No, I'm not gonna stop talking.

This client called herself Ms. Helen Ida Noel and as soon as I heard that I knew I had a good, proper case to work. She sounded like one of those rich broads, you know, and rich broads usually got the implants and the botox and—

Never mind.

Weeeelllll, now that the jealous idiot over here is done quizzing me on this Noel person I guess I can tell _you_ about her.

We made an appointment to meet and she came in, all long legs and Audrey Hepburn style—give me a break, of _course_ I know who that is. Whatd'ya take me for, a country bumpkin?—and sweet smiling as can be. I knew instantly she was trouble.

The murder kind of trouble.

Question was: who was the murdered and who did the murdering?

I was excited. Cases like this usually get passed on to the idiots in blue, who don't know an ice pick from a turkey carver—OW! FUCK! He fucking pinched me!—

[Sounds of muffled shouts, a thump, cursing. McCoy's voice returns, strangled and out-of-breath.]

I sincerely apologize. Cops are great. For God's sake, put the gun back in your pants, Jim! What I mean to say is cops are _fucking fantastic_ and smarter than they look… [additional muttering akin to "and damned _crazy_."]

Anyway, Ms. Noel was a recent widower. Seems the very intelligent police department filed her husband's death as a suicide. She didn't think that was the truth so she came to me.

I asked her the usual questions. How did it happen? What was his line of work? Did she sense anything amiss with her husband before his death? The very, very usual.

Her answers painted a picture I didn't like. The man was co-partner in a business venture that went sour. He got saddled with the huge financial loss. Now, right there is a million and one reasons why plenty of people off themselves. It ain't the whole Japanese honor-and-shame thing, per se, but some people can't cope with losing it all and starting over. Personally, I've been down a similar road… but never mind that. What's a criminal gonna care about me anyway?

It sounded like a plausible reason for the guy to kill himself.

Except when I went out to examine the scene of the cr— _suicide_ —I was a little hard-pressed to figure out why he would have hanged himself in a skeezy hotel where it took _three_ days for somebody to notice the stench and discover 'im dead. Not to mention the fact he was found without his pants. That's just a bad way to go, displaying your tiny cock to the world. I'd think even a ghost knows what humiliation is.

So the next order of business… find the girl he'd been banging when he got axed.

'Course, I didn't particularly look forward to explaining to the _wife_ about the cheating bit, but cases rarely reveal the pretty side of people's lives. I tracked the girlfriend to a bar in South Saluda where I had to talk down her pimp from slitting me ear-to-ear because I was taking up her work hours.

Yep. She was a hooker.

But get _this_ , she was Mr. Noel's girlfriend by day and a hooker by night and never did the twain meet.

What'd you mean I got that saying wrong? It's close enough. Don't listen to Jim. I know you got my drift.

I asked her if she knew her sugar daddy had been married. She said she sure did know that, and what the hell ever. So I asked her how long she was with Mr. Noel at the hotel that night. Then the bitch went crazy and nearly nailed me in the eye with her stiletto! Turns out, _she_ wasn't the girl at the hotel but it ought to have been her because that was their "special meeting place." She called the deceased Mr. Noel a few choice words I won't repeat, as I know you're the delicate type. [snickering]

I re-interviewed the hotel clerk on duty the night of the man's death. I swear to God he was about as dumb as a board. When I mentioned that Mr. Noel's usual lay wasn't the person I was hunting, he kind of blinked at me and said, "Oh, it weren't Shirley? Oh yeah, maybe it weren't. Come to think of it, the chick was real broad for a girl. Had some hairy legs, like a spider."

So I went searching for Mr. Noel's transvestite lover and left the hotel clerk to his stoned stupor. I scouted out the regular hangouts for that kind of thing— _yes_ , that's why I insisted we go to that bar, Jim. You think I actually like those fruity umbrella drinks? Moron.

Again, it took some master detective skills but I finally found Mr. Noel's regular—er, sort of irregular—go-to place for some on-the-wild-side fun. You know, barring his wife and his skank of a girlfriend. The chick-dude's name was Hank. I had to wait until Hank got the message I wasn't on the market—why, thanks, that's the first kiss I've gotten from your unromantic ass all night—to pry the story out of him.

Mr. Noel and Hank had some good times at the hotel from about a quarter of eleven until one a.m. or so. I got details I didn't need, like which butt cheek Mr. Noel preferred to be slapped while "saddled up" and that he had a thing for edible garters.

 _Jim_. Do _not_ put that on your Christmas list. I'm too old to be frisky and I hate anything that tastes of liquorice. Bad childhood association.

Now, seems easy, right? I grilled Hank about taking the sex-capades too far and maybe accidentally offing Mr. Noel in a deadly kind of way, and the man broke down into tears like a three-hundred pound baby and ruined my only good handkerchief with his snot. My gut said he wasn't the murderer.

Coroner's report stated Mr. Noel died some time after three a.m. so either the man got himself a last good fucking in and then waited around two hours to kill himself or somebody else showed up in the meantime and did it for him.

At this point, I was at a loss to track down the killer but Jim here'll tell you I ain't a quitter. Damn hotel was too cheap for security cameras so I had to move on to finding potential witnesses. I started with the list on the police report but that was short enough. Seriously, who is going to come forward and say, yeah, that was me checking in under Mr. and Mrs. Smith in the dead of night to get my rocks off with a five-dollar whore.

I did what I do best. I got my pistol outta my desk drawer, took it down to the hotel, and persuaded the clerk to fill in a few blanks on the guest roster. [A chuckle.] I think the little pissant is right frightened of me now.

Anyway, this led me to a man named Harcourt Fenton Mudd. Mr. Mudd was a hotel regular—pays cash, never signs in, and always escorts his dates back out into the parking lot like a gentleman. He's also City Councilor.

I mosed on up to his office and charmed my way in. [A pause, then a grumble.] Don't laugh, you just ain't seen my charm at work. _Love you too, sweetheart_. We had a nice talk where I threatened to pair his name all over the news with the words SEX SCANDAL and he offered me hush money. I didn't take the money, of course, seeing as how I'm an honest guy, and instead told him what I needed to know.

His first response was to say he never pays any mind to the other hotel business and keeps his head low.

For having such a big head—and fucking loud mouth at that—I doubted Mudd didn't think of every other business suit at that hotel as his pal in some secret club of mutual depravity, and so I propped my boots on a corner of his desk—he obligingly let me sit in his big desk chair—and waited him out. He blustered, he joked, and he whimpered a little too.

Then he finally told me about the unusual shouting (and not the orgasmic kind) through the thin wall separating their hotel rooms and he said, and I quote as he twirled his mustache and belly-laughed nervously, "I was lucky I wasn't that man, Mr. McCoy. My Stella wouldn't have yelled nearly as much; she'd have strung me up for all to see!"

I know. Interesting choice of words. Even more interesting insinuation. I mulled over that for a day or two, wondering if Helen Noel could have been at the hotel the night of her husband's death. But it made no sense—why would she ask me to look into a crime _she_ committed?

Murderers usually don't want someone to get them arrested, not unless they are straight-out, nut-house crazy.

But facts were facts and I couldn't proceed with the case until I had examined every possible angle. If Helen Noel killed her husband, well, she was paying me the big bucks to confront her with that information.

I took a trip to her mansion. The Noels lived out in the ritzy suburbs, not the kind that middle class folk like to pretend it is worth more than a dime in today's market, but the places that take up six bank parking lots and have their own garden mazes. It was a damned pretty sight but I wasn't there to tour. Helen was surprised to see me, and I was more (or less actually) surprised to find her enjoying the rays out back by a mammoth-sized swimming pool in a string bikini. She looked good but, of course, it wasn't me she was looking good for.

She wrapped herself up and we sat on the veranda to talk. I pretended to like my cup of chamomile tea (shit's gross without alcohol content) and came right out and asked, "How long have you been screwing the pool boy?"

She didn't like my crude question— _stop that, Spock_ , I can hear your eyes crinkling in amusement from the Goddamn future—and I didn't like her evasive answer. I told her flat-out that either she gave me all the sordid details of that night she caught her husband at the hotel or I was calling the cops in for homicide.

She started crying. What is it with people and accusations and crying? I sure as hell don't cry when I get fingered for a crime. What? Nothing, Jim, shit, forget I said that. I let her make a mess of her mascara and then I offered her the one snotty handkerchief I had. She didn't take it.

Turns out she discovered her husband's infidelity when she caught a venereal disease that didn't come from her pool-boy boyfriend. So she and said boyfriend followed him out that night to the hotel, a real Sherlock and Watson, those two, and waited until he had his fun with Hank. I wisely didn't mention Shirley. Pool boy sat in the car while she had a row with Mr. Noel (slapped him a few times, I think). At this point, Helen Noel insisted that she left him alive.

"I was going to divorce him and sue for alimony," she said to me.

I thought about that while she excused herself to the bathroom. The pool boy came up and looked me over while he slowly emptied the pool trash into a plastic bag. I looked him over in return, macho stare for macho stare, and came to a few conclusions. When Helen Noel returned freshly made up, I tipped my hat to her and said, "I'll get back to you, ma'am. Need to do a little more digging 'fore I can conclude the case."

She was glad to see me go.

The wife wasn't a murderess, I knew that much. For one thing, Mr. Noel wasn't a small man and Helen was tiny. She couldn't have strung him up. For another thing, Mudd had peeked out his door to watch the woman storm from Mr. Noel's hotel room and then peeked out his window to watch her climb into the passenger's seat of a car and peel out of the parking lot. (This tells me Mudd is nosy as hell.) So I believed her when she said she left her husband alive, minus a few gouges in his stunned face.

Here's what was strange, though: Mr. Noel wasn't going to be able to afford alimony and she knew it. Essentially he was at that hotel indulging in his days of luxurious fun until he had to sober up from expensive sex games and figure out how he was going to be able to afford them again some day.

I decided to talk to the one fellow I had yet to confront—the business partner.

Imagine my surprise when the business partner turned out to be a gorgeous redhead named Tonia Barrows, CEO of Barrows and Associates. I'll admit here, man to man, if I wasn't tied down I would of had my eye on that lady. By the look of her, though, she'd have used me up like toilet paper and flushed me down the crapper straight afterwards. So maybe it's a good thing I'm stuck with Jim. Which, by the way, can you hear him over there? Already snoring like the dead. He's drooling on my arm, too.

…I guess I owe for saving our relationship. But don't ever expect me to say thanks in the light of day. Or ever again, for that matter.

Now where was I? The Barrows lady.

She was one cool cucumber, let me tell you. She had some fancy restaurant come and cater lunch for us in her big-ass office and answered every single question I could throw at her. I was impressed. I was also drawing more conclusions that I thought possible.

As I sat sipping a shot of grade-A brandy, I asked her, "How long have you been in love with Noel?"

She laughed. Oh God, how she laughed.

"That slob?" she said once she had stopped laughed. "He was an investor and nothing more, Mr. McCoy. I assure you of that."

"You misunderstood me, Tonia," I countered. "I meant _Mrs._ Noel."

That shut her right up.

I got kicked out of her office for prying in all the right places.

I'll recap because I know you're kind of slow: Mr. Noel cheated on his wife with a cash-hustling floozy, cheated on his floozy with another bigger and male floozy, and got caught by said wife. The wife was having a fling of her own with her live-in pool boy and, upon discovering her husband's list of floozies, had a very hypocritical, very big bitch-fit. Mr. Noel's business partner is in-love with his wife and effectively (here I am conjecturing but the motive fits) ruined Mr. Noel's life and made his marriage ripe for divorce, because let's face it, Helen Noel wouldn't have stuck around long knowing Mr. Noel was going bankrupt. The affairs were just expedient excuses to back out of a marriage in a very rough patch.

None of this explained his death, though. I was missing a big clue.

[McCoy yawns.] Damn, what time is it? [Sounds of sheets rustling, a few thumps.]

It's late. I don't think I can finish this—what the fuck?

[More sounds. Footsteps. Cursing.]

"Jim!"

Mumbling. "Mrrrgghh. Bones?"

"Wake up!"

"What, Bones? I was dreamin' about some hot girl by a pool… OW! Shit, Bones, what was that for?"

"The light bulb blinked at me."

Silence.

"Say that again?"

"The fucking light bulb fucking _blinked_ at me!"

"Light bulbs don't blink, Bones."

"He's listening right now, Jim—Goddamn it, are you hearing what I'm sayin'?"

"Um… Hi, Spock? Can you not blink the light bulb at my paranoid boyfriend?" The voice becomes muffled. "Going back to sleep now, m'okay? Turn the lights off."

The silence of the room extends for a long time, only eventually replaced by someone's soft snores. Then the grumbling starts. "I'm right, I know it. You _are_ listening. Well, guess what, you pervert? I'm not going to finish the story. You'll just have to read the damn police report!"

Another stretch of silence.

"Are you gone?"

More silence then tentatively, "Are you really going to give up that easily?" A sigh. "Maybe I _am_ crazy…"

[End of recording]

~~~

_A few days later…_

Jim Kirk discards his gun on the kitchen counter and tugs McCoy around for a kiss of greeting.

"It's late," grunts the P.I. "Been out chasing bad guys?"

Kirk shoves his fingers through his already-messy hair. "Actually, me and the boys had to run interference in a marital spat down at Town Hall."

Leonard lifts an eyebrow. "You spent all night trying to keep a woman from breaking dishes over her husband's head?"

Jim laughs and accepts the shot of whiskey McCoy holds out to him. "Something like that. Though, Bones," Kirk's eyes twinkle, "you'll never guess who it was."

"You're damned right I am not going to guess," the dark-haired man says. "Tell me."

"Councilor Harry Mudd."

Leonard stares at his amused boyfriend for a long minute. "Are you telling me somebody spilled the beans to Mudd's wife about his extracurricular activities?"

Kirk returns Leonard's look with a sharp one of his own. "She got a hallmark photo album in the mail of Mudd coming and going with hookers from his favorite hotel. Seems she thought he was always working late at the office." Jim hesitates briefly before asking, "It wasn't you?"

Leonard gapes at him. "Hell no! Of course it wasn't me!"

The cop shrugs. "I didn't think you'd—well, I don't really know if you would do that kind of thing or not. I mean, the asshole _is_ cheating on his wife…"

"I won't say I haven't thought about it. Making an anonymous phone call or something, but I made a deal with the man. 'Sides, these politicians' wives are never as dumb as they seem." He narrows his eyes in thought.

"Then who else would have known about Mudd and his girls?" muses Kirk.

Leonard shoves his half-eaten turkey sandwich into his lover's startled hands with a sudden "God _damn_ it!" Stomping to their bedroom, he squares off with the innocuous-looking light bulb. "You are watching us, you sick bastard!" bellows the man. "You, you—" He starts to laugh. "You turned the son-of-a-bitch in to his wife. Oh _God_ , of course you would. Fucking classic!"

"Bones?" queries his boyfriend from the bedroom door, chewing slowly and watching McCoy wipe the tears of laughter from his face. Then Leonard realizes what Jim is doing—namely eating his sandwich—and bitches, "That was mine!"

Jim shoves the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and, seeing McCoy ball his fists and leap toward him, widens his eyes and dashes away down the hall.

The rest of their evening isn't noteworthy, except perhaps the part where Jim winds up locked outside on his apartment balcony pawing the sliding glass door while a very pleased McCoy looks on. Then Kirk starts eyeing the distance to the ground from ten-stories up—which would be no small leap of faith—and Leonard hauls him off the brick by the back of his jacket before he can attempt to play Spiderman along the side of the building.

Thereafter they spend the rest of their energy in an enjoyable session of making up.

~~~

Across the city in a softly lit warehouse basement, the art thief Spock stops the audio recording about that time to allow privacy for the couple's more intimate moments. He turns his attention instead to the copy of the police report on the corner of his desk.

But he finds he is unable to open it. That would spoil McCoy's story.

He will instead, he decides, have to delineate a means to extract the conclusion of the case of Mr. Noel from the P.I. himself. And he will have to do it soon, for he is quite dismayed by not knowing.

Spock casually extends one long finger and presses the last red button on an otherwise keyless telephone. A man answers the direct line immediately with a carefully pronounced "Hello?"

Spock greets the man in his native tongue then states, "I have an assignment for you, Mr. Chekov. I require a new informant in Kirk's unit."

"Vhat happened to Kelso?"

"He unwisely attempted to blackmail me." Chekov does not inquire of Kelso's fate. They, he and Pavel Chekov, understand the business of crime—and thereby one another—quite well. This is why Chekov is his most promising operative. "You will receive a package with the necessary tools to begin your assignment."

" _Da._ It vill be no problem, Mr. Spock. I alvays liked playing cops-and-robbers."

"As long as you strive to remember, Mr. Chekov, in this particular game you are _not_ the robber."

" _Da._ "

Spock disconnects the line, steeples his fingers, and proceeds to outline a plan to, essentially, _get McCoy._

_-Fini_


	15. The Case of the Mondays, Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The couple's fighting is the aftermath of a more sinister plot.

"Whoa," half-warns a young cop to one of his buddies as he scuttles around a paperwork-laden desk in obvious fleeing haste. " _Red alert_."

(Somebody whimpers in response that Mondays ought to be a statistically relevant factor in office homicides.)

On the heels of his statement is the tell-tale, laser-blue gaze of their captain and his aura of crackling dark energy which slams into the work area of the precinct and nearly rattles the windows with a force known as Kirkian anger. Some of the men slink down into their chairs praying they go unnoticed; a few others carefully return the just-pilfered (and partly eaten) donuts to the donut box, hoping it might be an acceptable peace offering should Kirk look to them with that murderous gleam in his eyes. Only one person does not seem overly frightened; perhaps this is why Kirk veers straight for the man's desk, fists clenching and unclenching, as he bites out, " _Sulu._ "

Sulu, for his part, simply leans back in his chair and props one of his polished boots on the edge of his desk. "Boss," Sulu returns, innumerably calm. He proceeds to give the captain an abbreviated run-down of last night's catch currently in-process and, of those, who is still sitting in jail in the other part of the complex.

Sulu's report helps Kirk restrain the wilder part of his temper and focus on work. It definitely keeps him from retaliating in a very un-captain-like manner to Frank's snide comment along the lines of "musta had another fight with the _missus_." Nobody laughs at that joke, though, except Frank—whose laughter is short-lived when he realizes he is alone in his mockery.

Once Sulu finishes, Kirk gives a curt nod and heads for his office, shutting the door with enough gusto to warn off anyone from approaching him before lunch time.

In his office and away from the eyes of his team, however, he braces himself against his desk, hands white-knuckled on the wood, and tries to maintain control. He fails miserably, as is evidenced by the random object he grabs without looking and shatters against the wall of his office in a rapid-fire throw. He realizes belatedly, staring at the mess on the floor, the random object is in fact one of his most precious.

Bones' sour face returns his stare from beneath the cracked glass of a framed newspaper clipping. In the picture, McCoy, suffering an interview by the press, grips a microphone like he wants to brain the reporter with it instead of answering her nosy questions. That particular night of thwarted art-thief-catching, Kirk had claimed he had captain-ly things to do and abandoned the P.I. to the mercy of the news station. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say he abandoned the news station to the mercy of Bones; the resulting explosion (oh those poor, poor reporters) had been fun to watch from the sidelines, which is why he saved the clipping—so he would never forget how awesome Leonard McCoy is.

Jim shudders, slides almost clumsily around his desk, and drops into the hard, old leather of a chair. He closes his eyes and tries not to remember the look of betrayal on his lover's face.

How can he fix this?

Jim breathes noisily through his nose.

He _won't_ fix it because if he tries, something bad is going to happen to Bones. That Kirk knows, feels in his gut with every fiber of his being.

Jim opens his eyes and leans forward, crossing his arms over a two-year old desktop calendar, and stares unblinkingly at his office door.

The game has changed. He doesn't know why, but it has—and he hadn't even had an inkling the change was coming.

_What the fuck does Spock think he is doing?_

Jim's bitten fingernails unconsciously dig into the soft flesh of his arms.

Wrong question, Kirk, he thinks. _Why_ is Spock doing what he is doing?

Why—the—fuck—is Spock trying to kidnap Bones?

It makes Jim cold inside to think of it; Bones _would_ have been kidnapped if not for Jim's discovery of his missing wallet last Thursday morning (he didn't remember removing it from his jacket but maybe Bones had). Cursing his stupid luck, he had returned to the apartment he shares with Bones at the perfect moment to catch two thugs breaking in.

Suffice to say, by the time Bones had stepped out of the shower, surprised and bare-chested, to the scene of his boyfriend beating in some random person's face (the other random thug was already laid out in the open doorway of the apartment and, behind his prone body, neighbors looked on in horror) Jim had foiled whatever nefarious scheme the two men were planning. Later, grilled by himself and Sulu, the bastards had talked—one of them cried like a baby under Sulu's narrow-eyed, frightening samurai stare while confessing, "...I don't know nothing, I swear, he just said to _be there_ at 8:04 and get in the apartment and..."—and their orders were to steal Bones.

Steal Bones.

 _His_ Bones. The man Jim can't imagine living without.

Jim doesn't know what to think about Spock now. They have had a kind of weird cop-and-criminal camaraderie going; at least, that was the only way Kirk could classify their relationship and have it make sense. In truth chasing after Spock keeps him sane most days. It's like they have been playing a game of chess at every turn, making a show of their abilities to best the other, yet never crossing that invisible line that puts either of them into an unforgivable position. Until now.

Spock isn't satisfied with a simple game anymore, it seems, and somehow Bones became a third player when Jim wasn't paying attention.

Though the thief loves to incite McCoy's wrath and to taunt him, McCoy has always been referred to as the "slightly lacking investigative trainee." Spock never seemed overly interested in Leonard McCoy except as a criticism of Kirk's taste in sidekicks. Which, per usual, followed along the vein of Spock's criticism of Kirk and the police force in general.

He missed something crucial. Either Spock hinted at it (as the art thief is wont to do) and Jim was blind to the hint; or Spock purposefully said nothing, and that means Jim doesn't understand the man like he thought he did. Kirk isn't certain which scenario is worse.

He makes a noise of frustration and slams the open palm of one hand down onto the flat surface of the desk. A precariously stacked tower of manila folders wavers with the aftershock of the blow but does not topple over. With a grimace, the captain nudges the tower farther away from the edge of his desk; but otherwise he ignores the reports waiting to be reviewed and approved.

Bones will be in his office by now, drinking a cup of coffee and ordering his assistant/secretary to answer the phone and make more coffee. Ever since Jim set up a pair of cops on surveillance detail outside of McCoy's office building, Bones has called in every morning to complain of being followed by Jim's idiot lackeys and to object, if only half-heartedly, to Jim trying to keep him safe (which Jim only trusts his men to do when Jim can't be around to see to McCoy's well-being personally).

Bones won't call this morning, not after their fight.

Jim had told McCoy point-blank he can't work the Spock case again. It's too dangerous.

McCoy's face had been disbelieving at first; then, when Leonard realized Jim wasn't joking, he had simply said nothing at all and walked out on their traditional morning breakfast.

Jim knew the fallout wasn't going to be pretty but he hadn't been expecting _no_ fallout. That means Bones seriously hates him right now. A Bones who doesn't yell or rant his anger is a Bones Jim fears most.

Yet he still thinks he couldn't have made any other choice. Above all else, Leonard's safety matters, even at the expense of Jim's heart.

Jim decides he is going to kill Spock for multiple reasons:

1\. Wanting to take Bones away from him.

2\. Fucking up his happiest relationship in decades.

3\. Not having the common decency, if Spock has decided to play hardball, to go directly after Kirk.

If this were some superhero comic, he would meet Spock on the rooftop of the highest building and challenge him to a fight. So, barring the fact Jim Kirk isn't Batman and Spock is definitely not the Joker...

( _Wait,_ his brain sidetracks, _does that make Bones Robin?_ Damn, if they were on speaking terms, he would call Bones to tease him about this fantasy and probably receive a wonderful threat involving his genitals in return.)

...why can't he issue a man-to-man challenge to Spock?

His eyes light up with an idea.

~~~

The underling brave enough to dare knocking on his office door right before lunch is the newest rookie Pavel Chekov. Pavel only blinks at his captain in innocence ( _kid's got the face of a cherub_ , Jim thinks absently, _the street hookers'll eat him alive_ ) as Kirk snaps out, "What is it, Chekov?"

"A fax, sir," says the young man. He doesn't move away from Jim's desk after he places the fax into the overflowing inbox. Instead, Chekov looks at the litter of crumpled paper around the floor and proceeds to curiously watch Jim scratch away on a sheet of notebook paper.

Kirk eventually realizes, caught up in his self-appointed task, that the rookie is still in the room. He lays down his fountain pen and too casually blocks the view of the note with his arm. "What else?" he asks, straining not to be annoyed at the interruption.

Pavel's words bely the slightly vacuous expression on his face. "I think, sir, the vord 'treacherous' is spelled incorrectly."

Kirk takes a peek at the note and curses. Grinding his teeth, he rips the page out of the notebook, balls it up and tosses it haphazardly over his shoulder before painstakingly starting over.

The last thing he wants to do is amuse Spock. A dueling invitation is fucking difficult enough to write without the fact his spelling skills are on par with a kindergartener's.

"Thank you, Chekov," he says, irritated. Then, unnecessarily sharp, "Dismissed."

The lanky young man shrugs and murmurs something in Russian. "I put fax in box," the rookie reminds him, accent heavy, before leaving.

With a long-suffering roll of his eyes, Kirk flings his pen to the side and grabs for the fax. It could be from Pike, since the guy is technologically thirty years behind everybody else (email makes Pike reach for a gun), which means his ass is in the fire if he ignores a missive from the man behind his quick promotions through the precinct.

He glances over it, brain still mostly invested in his macho _meet with me so I can kick your trecherose (treacherous) ass_ challenge to Spock, and only after a few seconds does his eyes catch on the fluid signature at the bottom.

He re-reads the note again, this time silently shaping the words with his mouth. It says:

_Kirk,_

_Now that you are privy to my intentions, I would suggest a convening of an amiable nature between us to discuss the appropriate furthering of our unique relationship. The Clockhouse, 2200. I shall wait in anticipation of our meeting._

_Also, your missing wallet has been returned to you via postal delivery._

_Yours respectfully,_

**_Spock_ **

It is a long time before Jim's numb brain can function properly again. When he is able to think, he spends the next twenty minutes un-crumpling every discarded note and methodically feeding them to the shredder. As he shreds, he turns over nuggets of information in his mind and fits them together like a puzzle.

Spock is too clever for his own good, and Jim shouldn't have thought otherwise.

Kirk tugs on his jacket and grabs a scarf to wind about his neck, thinking of just how fucking clever the art thief is. _Intentions_ , huh?

Warning or not, game or not, Jim will never let Spock think he can simply take McCoy away, or effectively ruin Jim's happiness. The criminal will learn what it is to fear James Kirk if he actually attempts either of those things rather than playacting.

A determined Kirk vacates his office, intent on hunting down McCoy, begging forgiveness, and conceding some ground that Bones can still work with him to capture Spock. Then, tonight at the Clockhouse, he'll negotiate those ragtag 'pursuits' with Spock.

And somehow, some way, he will find out why Spock wants McCoy and what he has to do in order to prevent Spock from succeeding.

He bumps into the rookie loitering in the hallway on his way out of the precinct. In the mood to forgive the young man for not working (or at least not pretending to look like he is working), he claps Chekov's shoulder in passing and says, "Thanks for the fax, Pavel."

 _It was more important than you know,_ he thinks but doesn't add.

The sweet-faced man bobs his head with an earnest "Yes, sir! You are velcome, sir."

Because Jim is already moving away, back turned and stride full of purpose to _get to Bones_ , he hears a faint muttering in Russian (thinks of it as something he will have to get used to, like he got used to Sulu's penchant for sharp switch-blades) but does not see the tiny, knowing quirk of mouth that accompanies it.

If he had, he would not have understood that quirk anyway. Spock is, after all, much too clever, and Jim Kirk has yet to discover just how deep his enemy's cleverness goes.

_-Fini_


	16. Forewarned is Forearmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim never realized how crazy his life with Bones could be until he began reading about it. References to other fandoms.

Bones in shadow.

Jim stilled, licked his lips nervously as his heart made a dull thud in his chest.

"Jim," the shadow said, "I have to tell you something."

 _Oh._ This could not be good. His mind ran through the possibilities, caught on the first big _whoamygodit_ ** _can't_** _be!_ and his mouth, unsurprisingly, blurted it out. "You're… not Bones. You're a dimensional space-time traveler. Called, like, the Traveler."

The shadow drawled, "Huh?"

The Captain muttered a quiet _thank you_ , but he had to ask, unable to shake his wariness, "What about a—a mutant?"

"Mutant?" came the flat response.

"Inhuman reflexes, superior strength, the ability to regenerate cells, never dying…" He sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh God, Bones, are you a _vampire?"_

"Damn it, Jim," the shadow snarled, now greatly annoyed. "What's the matter with you? I wanted to say—"

Jim disregarded the idea Bones could become a millenia-old disembodied head in a giant jar, though the letters YANA flashed in his mind's eye, and his forehead began to bead with sweat for all of his rapid-fire thinking. "No, that's not it, right? Too easy. Wouldn't make you any weirder than Old Spock jumping into our universe."

"Who?"

If it wasn't an identity issue, then... Jim shifted uncomfortably. "You're in love with Admiral Pike."

Pike. _Jim's_ mentor, now dominating a big steel hover-chair which did nothing to diminish Pike's good looks… At the shadow's silence (which was incredulous, not that Jim sensed this through his self-absorbed panic), Kirk's brain continued its dramatic leaps.

Mouth dry, he choked, "Is it Spock, Bones? You're with _Spock_." Jim groaned and put a hand to his face, voice still strangled. "I'm sure we could, ah, work something out…"

The Bones shadow stepped forward and a measure of the overhead light in the Captain's quarters revealed the plane of his jaw, a smooth cheek, an eye twitch.

"Jim…" A warning to listen. "I just—"

Jim looked over the normally flat parts of Bones still hidden in shadow and his hands spasmed in their hard grips on his knees.

"You're pregnant!" he gasped.

"What? No!"

"You're a girl!"

"NO!"

"A girl-turned-boy-turning-cephalopod—"

"For Christ's sake!" growled the doctor as he stalked towards Kirk at the opposite end of the room. "Would you _shut up_ already, kid?"

"But, Bones, I can handle the truth! I swear, I— _mmmpphh…_ "

When Bones finally stopped kissing him and pulled back, Jim listened in a half-daze as the man said, "I love you, you idiot. That's all I wanted to say." Now the doctor eyed Jim warily. "Have you been knocking back Scotty's hooch in-between shifts again?"

Jim blinked then almost blushed. His "No" was rather weak.

But that hooch was quite good, even if Bones wasn't overly fond of the sloppy drunken sex Jim liked to indulge after a sip or two of the potent alcohol. (Of course, when Jim was too uncoordinated to aim his dick… well, he could understand Bones' attitude.)

Bones pushed at him, saying, "What's that?" with a frown in his voice and an eyebrow steadily climbing up his forehead.

Jim reeled in his wandering thoughts to realize Bones was looking over his shoulder at the lazy glow orginating from the desk behind them.

And Jim freaked out.

He almost beheaded the computer terminal in his overzealous effort to shut off its screen. Turning back to Bones, Jim smiled sheepishly.

"Nothing, Bones—it was nothing. Just… bed-time reading of, er, report-y stuff. Yeah, that's right! A report from Spock!" he said brightly.

Bones considered him for a long moment (could he sense the lie?) before shrugging. "You had dinner?"

Jim shook his head. "What's on the replicator menu?" he asked while he went looking for one of his errant boots and Bones searched for the other.

"The same cardboard crap," complained McCoy, handing Jim the left boot to a pair.

As the man continued to grumble about the starship's lackluster dining options, Jim breathed a sigh of relief.

The next time he gets an anonymous link from an anonymous sender, he will ignore it. Yet he cannot help but wonder, not just who was behind the linked story archive, but who _wrote_ all of those... _fan_ fictions.

Jim's eyes skipped to the back of Bones' dark-haired head as the result of hours of reading crowded his mind again.

All things—and events—considered, their universe isn't exactly known for its sedate condition. Some of those fictions _could_ be possible.

"Bones," he said, interrupting his lover's rant, "what are the chances of us encountering evil mirrored versions of ourselves?"

Bones answered thoughtfully, "Given our luck? Pretty damn likely."

"Yeah," he muttered, "that's what I thought, too."

He tugged on his other boot, let Bones take the lead on the way to the mess hall, and pretended he wasn't following possibly the universe's only blood-sucking alien-cowgirl-pregnant-with-a-half-Vulcan's-baby Bones. (Unless there were _two_ of them, at which point Jim's brain almost fizzled from overload and died.)

Yet, he thought, even if he was following that kind of Bones, it wouldn't matter much. If Bones loved Jim, and Jim loved Bones, nothing could keep them apart.

…

Except maybe a zombie apocalypse?

…

Or somebody named Q?

 _Hmm_ , Jim decided, he might have to research that archive some more. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.

_-Fini_


	17. The Case of the Mondays, Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock proceeds on with his nefarious plans, and McCoy hates black-tie events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... is my fault, and a very serious installment. It got away from me, though I think I realized it might eventually. If you are not okay with any pairing other than Jim and Bones, please don't hurt yourself by reading this.

McCoy is pretty certain it's his own fault he winds up in this situation; and he is _more_ than certain Jim is going to kick his ass for that very reason. After, of course, Jim kicks Spock's ass. Preferably with a gun. And bullets.

One can only hope.

Leonard wets his dry cracking lips, tests the ropes binding him to the chair for the fifth time, and finally settles for glaring at the tall man lounging in the shadows across the long, empty room. "You won't get away with this, Spock," he says hotly.

"I may" is the mild reply.

"I may? _I may?_ What the fuck does that mean?"

He cannot see the man's enigmatic smile for those damned shadows but its creepiness settles over him like a second skin. He fights to keep from showing how effected he is by the thief's silence. Truthfully, however, _everything_ Spock has done tonight has affected him more than he would like to admit.

Yes, it's his own fault.

And Spock's. The fucker.

~~~

_earlier that evening..._

Jim looks at Leonard in the bathroom mirror as he finishes brushing his teeth. "Bones, you know this is a black-tie event, right?"

"I'm not dressing up in some penguin suit just to meet the status quo." McCoy flips down the collar of his black shirt.

Kirk spits into the sink after rinsing out his mouth. The toothbrush in his hand gets discarded into cup next to another toothbrush. "Unfortunately, I don't have a choice." He turns around to face McCoy and asks, smiling faintly, "How do I look?"

Leonard looks him over then casually reaches out to play with the knot of Jim's bowtie, though it's perfect (just like the rest of Jim). "Good," he murmurs.

Jim captures Leonard's hand and tugs him in until they lightly brush mouths. "If you can manage an hour without tossing a drink in someone's face, Bones, we'll come home. Then you can take me out of this 'penguin suit,'" he promises.

His brain responds sluggishly to Kirk's seductive tone, like any good seduced man's brain might. Leonard says the only thing he can grasp, which is "Be damn stupid to waste decent alcohol by soaking people in it, Jim."

Jim pulls back and pats his shoulder. "Just don't insult Pike tonight."

That rouses McCoy from his lust-tinged daze. His green eyes flash. "Goddamn fucking Pike! If I see 'im, I'll punch his face in!" Leonard crosses his arms, unaware of how sulky he looks.

"Ooo-kay," Jim says. "Bones? I really, REALLY don't want to lose my job tonight."

Leonard purses his mouth, as silently stubborn as mule.

"So I guess you can insult him. Just..." Kirk absently rakes a hand through his carefully combed hair, mussing it in a way Leonard likes much better than that gelled brick it had been. "...don't hit my boss. Please?"

After a pause, McCoy nods shortly. "Fine. Just so you know, my hatred is his own fault. He's an asshole."

"He isn't an asshole, Bones," Jim argues back. "Pike simply knows when he has to play hardball to get the job done."

"Whatever," Leonard mutters. Pike is a source of contention between them, for the simple fact that Leonard thinks Pike is too hard on Jim, and Jim is too blinded by idol worship of the great Christopher Pike to see it. Of course, McCoy says none of those things aloud because if they fight, going to the Policeman's Ball will be all that much more awkward for McCoy if he gets dumped to fend for himself in a ballroom full of politicians and cops' wives.

Jim is obviously reining in his opinion, too, as he opts to make his way from the bathroom to search for his sole pair of fancy shoes.

McCoy looks at himself in the mirror and practices on a charming smile he'll need to get through the party. The result makes him look constipated.

Tonight's going to be a pseudo-Monday if he ever had one, he can tell. A headache is already building behind his eyes. Leonard sighs in resignation and reaches for the toothpaste with one hand, thinking for once Jim is setting a good example of personal hygiene.

Until he picks up his wet toothbrush.

"Motherfucking _son of a bitch! Jim!_ " His snarl almost rattles the towel rack. "What the FUCK! USE YOUR OWN GODDAMN TOOTHBRUSH, NOT MINE!"

He pitches the disgusting object into the trashcan and digs out a brand new toothbrush from the cabinet beneath the sink. Ripping open the plastic of its packaging and ignoring the contrite "Sorry, Bones!" from the bedroom (which McCoy's ears detect as obviously lacking in true remorse, i.e. signifying a crime to be repeated in the near future), Leonard curses the fact he is doomed to a life of buying toothbrushes in bulk.

[~~~]

It seems only fair (or revengeful, but that's a petty difference of words to Leonard McCoy) that the first thing Leonard does when they reach the town hall, which is hosting the Policeman's Ball, is interrupt Pike's undoubtedly important conversation with a town councilman to strike up a wonderfully crude conversation of his own.

Pike's amusement dies out halfway through McCoy's barrage of back-handed compliments (the best kind of insults, after all), and suddenly Leonard finds himself being collected by his partner in a firm towing grip.

To silence his protest at being dragged away, Jim gives McCoy a cup of something strong and satisfyingly alcoholic. Leonard downs it in one swallow and hands it back to Jim with a demand for more. Kirk faces the direction of the bar, then eyes the crowd of women in low-cut evening gowns (who are eyeing him back like a school of piranhas), and asks plaintively, "Do I have to, Bones?"

"Either you fill me with drink, or I go back to Pike."

Jim's quiet " _fuck_ " does not go unappreciated. Leonard grins at Kirk's retreating back.

Oh but payback can feel so good!

Flirting Hell (Jim's term for these kinds of shindigs, despite how Jim excels at flirting) should suffice. Then McCoy will swoop in like the charming bastard he is and pull Jim out of the fray of women. He might even concede to dance with the man before the evening is over, if the song is slow enough and his feet feel like cooperating.

Sometimes he is amazed he has grown into this person so confident in his partner, so trusting. It's like the fallout with his first relationship—with his marriage with Jocelyn—is a distant memory. It doesn't burn him anymore, and he thinks Jim is the reason why. The man is too much of a good thing not to heal McCoy's heart.

Glancing at his watch and estimating he has a good fifteen minutes or so before it's time to rescue Jim, he heads for the veranda attached to the ballroom. It takes some finesse—and mostly unfriendly glares—to push his way through the crowds of chatting people to get where he wants to go. On the way, he almost flattens Jim's newest rookie, Pavel Chekov, looking like an uncomfortable version of a Valentine's Day cherub in a tuxedo. Chekov tips backwards as McCoy, like a bulldozer on a mission, clips him hard; McCoy stumbles at the impact, catches himself, and turns back to make a somewhat sheepish apology for knocking into the man. He discovers Sulu has caught Chekov and is propping him up.

Leonard doesn't think Chekov's eyes could get any wider without popping out of his head.

"Sorry, Pavel," he says. "I didn't see you there."

Pavel straightens and steps away from Sulu. "It is okay, Mr. McCoy," he says with a quick, bright smile. He looks around with obvious interest. "But vhere is the Keptin?"

Leonard tips his head toward the bar. "Under siege."

For a split second, Leonard could have sworn there is amusement in Sulu's eyes. But Sulu only says, "That would be more of your problem than ours, McCoy."

The private investigator snorts. "Yeah. I'll get around to it. Sometime this hour."

Poor Chekov doesn't look like he understands, which he wouldn't because he hasn't been around long enough to observe that Kirk and McCoy are too solid in their relationship to worry about infidelity. "You do not mind the... attention the Keptin receives?" the rookie asks him curiously.

Leonard laughs and counters, "Who's going to want that bonehead?" with a quirk of his mouth.

Chekov looks questioningly to Sulu. Sulu makes a minute movement of his head, no doubt a silent communication of _yeah, they're a weird couple, don't bother worrying about it_.

McCoy nods to both officers and continues on his way, anticipating a little fresh air and, better yet, some privacy to laugh himself silly.

~~~

"I want some water," McCoy complains.

At first he thinks Spock might have disappeared. There is only the sound of McCoy's soft breaths and, somewhere more distant, the echo of a dripping faucet.

"Spock?"

Seconds pass. Close to a minute. Leonard keeps count.

Then slowly a shadow detaches from the other darkened side of the mostly bare room. (The place smells like a warehouse to Leonard.) Spock goes no further than the boundary between light and dark and lingers there; not quite out of shadow but not quite in shadow either.

McCoy repeats, less vocally steady, "I want... some water." The croak he makes should be convincing enough.

"May I ask you a question?" the other man asks suddenly, breaking a long and oppressive silence.

"I ain't in a position to say no." Shit, but how bitter does that sound? He clears his throat. "Sorry. Okay, ask."

"Why did you kiss me?"

Leonard closes his eyes. "It—wasn't like that."

"I know what a kiss is, Mr. McCoy." And, interestingly, it seems the calm, collected Spock can have his feathers ruffled after all. The hint of contempt in the thief's voice prompts McCoy to open his eyes and glare.

"You deserve what you are going to get," he snaps in retaliation. "What the hell were you thinking, kidnapping me? Big. Fucking. Mistake!"

"You did not answer my question."

"Fuck your question, and fuck you!" He leans forward as far as the ropes will allow, which sadly isn't but a mere inch or two. "Let me go, you bastard! Let me go, and I might tell Jim not to saw off your damned hands."

Spock moves then in so smooth a glide there is no doubt the man can be a predator if he needs to be. He comes remarkably close to his captive; Leonard can feel the heat of him, smell something that must be an expensive cologne. Spock lifts McCoy's chin with a long, elegant finger. Leonard doesn't resist.

The question is repeated too softly. "On the veranda... why did you kiss me?"

"Distraction," McCoy says, swallowing.

Spock's dark eyes consider him for too long. At last the man removes his touch and moves away. He says, as he blends back into the shadows, "I ask only for your patience, Mr. McCoy, in what is to come. In the meantime, I believe I shall procure you that glass of water you so desire."

Then the presence of McCoy's nemesis is gone, a palpable absence where there used to be a sense of curiosity, of anticipation and of mystery. But the one sense—danger—does not abate for McCoy; it only stalls.

He drops his chin to his chest and huffs out a breath.

"Distraction," he mutters to himself. "You stupid, stupid fool."

The kiss had been a lure to keep Spock from escaping once McCoy had finally caught him. To make Spock stay, _right there_ , next to McCoy so reinforcements would have time to show up, and Leonard could arrest the most notorious criminal in the city. He had anticipated it would be a relief to remove the ever-present, giant thorn in his side that is Spock, art thief extraordinaire.

Now he thinks his lure backfired entirely in the wrong way.

Somebody had the foresight to wrap Leonard's wrists before they tied his hands behind the chair. No matter how McCoy twists, the bonds don't touch or break his skin. For that, he supposes, he should be grateful. Yet it just makes him angrier than he currently is because he can't have pain to focus on. Pain would be better than the same thoughts circling around in his head like sharks.

Is Jim going to hate him?

And why, oh, why had he thought kissing Spock would work? If good guys went around making out with bad guys in order to detain them, comic books would be glorified picture books of porn. It _isn't_ done that way.

What the fuck is wrong with me? he wonders. And what the hell I am going to tell Jim?

~~~

_earlier..._

It's better outside. The night has just enough chill to make a jacket useful, and Leonard tucks his hands into said jacket with gratefulness. Leaning against the balustrade, he imagines he can see stars winking dimly through the smog in the sky.

No annoying people out here or nosy reporters posing as hired photographers. No Pike—though that might be more of downside than an upside, considering the twitching of Pike's eye as McCoy called him a decent politician with "just the right kind of smarts for a short-lived career. All a guy like you has to do is hitch his wagon to a bright star. Hmm, wonder where we could find one of those? Oh look, Jim's headed our way. Ain't that a bit of luck!"

(It might have been Pike who wanted to punch him after that conversation.)

He is so busy snickering, he almost misses the scrape of shoe on stone.

Leonard relaxes, leaning forward, and breaks the silence. "I oughta've known you'd get away from those vultures without me. I hope you remembered my drink."

"You must accept my sincerest apologies," a not-Jim voice answers, "for I had not realized one must only approach you with libation. I will make note of this for the future."

McCoy gasps with instantaneous recognition of the voice and spins around. "Spock!"

"Good evening, Mr. McCoy." The criminal's eyes seem to shine brightly. "Are you enjoying the party?"

Oh _fuck_ no! And he's not packing his gun—AGAIN! But this is a… oh, shit, really?

"Spock," he begins, closing the distance between them, "you are the biggest goddamn idiot I've ever met. This is a Policeman's Ball. _Police_ man! Comprende?"

Spock lifts an eyebrow. "Yes, I am aware of my current position. You presume I should be worried."

McCoy stalks in a half-circle, eyeing the man up and down. Spock turns with him as Leonard moves, like a man determined to stay in the center of his orbit.

"That'd be the normal response, yeah. What are you doing here?"

"I came for you."

The simple answer sends alarm bells shrilling like sirens in McCoy's head. He shifts his eyes to the open entrance of the ballroom. How to let people know Spock is here without sending the man running away? God _damn_ , but this is their chance to get him! Maybe somebody upstairs is rooting for McCoy after all. Wouldn't that be a change of events?

Leonard decides to play along without a second's thought. He looks back to Spock. "I think you've made it pretty clear how _uninteresting_ I am, Spock, so why me?"

Spock is standing very still, very straight. His hands are behind his back. If Leonard didn't get the impression this was a normal pose for the man, he would be worried about the thief hiding a weapon.

"There is the matter of a... story which has come to my attention." Spock seems amused for some reason. "I have been told, quite pointedly and at great length, when I revealed my intentions to pursue this story to its conclusion, that I would be better served to avoid any unlawful actions against the story's creator."

Leonard cannot help but laugh at that. "Somebody told you to keep your criminal little fingers out of the cookie jar? Oh, that's good! Are you going to take their advice?"

"At the moment, it seems so. Tell me, Mr. McCoy, how does the case conclude?"

McCoy stops laughing and gives Spock a strange look. "What?"

Spock's voice is patience personified. "The story I hold an interest in is yours. On a more subtle level, I believe your impromptu storytelling was a challenge—one I have accepted. Now, if you please," he says softly, like an absolute gentleman, "how does the story end? I must know."

McCoy is shocked in spite of himself. "Spock, are you… are you stalking me? For real?"

"Are you alarmed?"

"I—yeah, yeah I am!"

"Then I apologize."

"For stalking me?"

"For alarming you."

Leonard shakes his head. "You're something else, Spock. I-I don't think I'm comfortable right now. I'm going inside." And Spock wouldn't dare follow him.

Would he?

It is perhaps even more shocking when Spock grabs his wrist and says, "Do not leave."

"Let go of my arm."

"I must know," Spock says, and there is something almost urgent swimming deep down in Spock's usually arrogant, flat voice. "How does the story conclude..." He holds Leonard's eyes. "...for us?"

McCoy doesn't have it in him to be amused or angered any more. "It concludes by me walking away and giving you a five-minute head start. Like it always has to, Spock," he adds more quietly, "between a criminal and a cop."

Spock releases Leonard's arm, saying nothing further.

"Hello? Mr. McCoy?"

The voice startles them both. Leonard hadn't realized they were so close together until he jumps apart from Spock. Pavel Chekov pokes his head around the floor-length curtain shielding the entrance to the veranda.

"Mr. McCoy?" Chekov's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of the two men.

Oh, hell. This is not what it looks like.

Leonard watches the rookie's eyes fix on Spock for a brief second.

"I did not realize you had company. I am sorry. I—"

"Wait!" Behind McCoy, Spock is frozen. Well, the man can't be helped now, can he? It's far too late. Leonard says, trying to convey a message of _this is fucking important so listen_ , "Where's Jim?"

"I believe the Keptin is still at the bar." Chekov blinks like an innocent lamb. And he doesn't seem alarmed, which tells McCoy the fool doesn't recognize the art thief. What the hell is the matter with Jim? The first thing on which you educate the newbies is the identity of the most wanted man in town.

"Will you tell him I have a, uh, problem I need help with?"

"A problem? Can I assist—?"

"No, kid," Leonard snaps. "Just... tell him I found somebody better than Pike to insult."

Which will definitely signal a Spock alert to Jim. Leonard is certain of it.

Chekov nods obediently and backs away, disappearing into the ballroom.

At Leonard's back, Spock says with a tinge of annoyance, "I fear I must use those proffered five minutes wisely, Mr. McCoy. 'Till we meet again."

"Wait!" It's the second time in the last couple of minutes he has cried that. But somehow it gives Spock pause. Leonard moves into the man's personal space. "You can't leave."

"So I must remain to be arrested?" is the dry response. "I highly doubt you can persuade me to go to prison."

"We have unfinished business," Leonard says stubbornly. _Don't let him get away,_ he thinks. Not this time!

"A moment ago, you intended to do precisely that, Mr. McCoy—to finish the business between us."

"Well, that's your own fault, you assclown! You're damned confusing. You can't even stalk me like a normal stalker!"

Spock ignores him and heads for the stone steps leading to the open grounds surrounding the town hall. "I have three minutes remaining. Goodbye, Leonard."

Leonard doesn't think.

It's obvious he doesn't. That is why he launches himself forward and drags Spock away from the first step and kisses him. It's not even really a kiss, more like a mashing of two hard mouths. There is no passion in it, only surprise from both parties.

Spock drags his head back to stare at McCoy. Silence is a brief affair between them.

The thief's voice momentarily falters as he summarizes, "Most... interesting."

Leonard is incapable of speech which is very strange, he thinks idly, because he is the one who initiated the kiss. Spock shifts under his hands, then, reaching for the inside of his jacket pocket. Leonard surfaces from his surprise long enough to think he should move away. But why aren't his feet moving?

"I find I have changed my mind," the man tells Leonard, drawing his attention again, and how is that supposed to make sense?

How is what Leonard did suppose to make sense? His brain doesn't find it sensible in the least. He realizes he is beginning to panic a little because he _kissed_ Spock.

Leonard has no warning; not that it would have mattered with Spock's sharp reflexes and Leonard's currently dulled ones (this he will contemplate later, upon waking up to find himself kidnapped by Spock, and hate himself for). Something stings sharply in the side of his neck. He stumbles back from Spock, inhaling sharply, with a hand to his neck.

Spock re-pockets what, at a glance, appears to be a syringe. "Kirk will be displeased by the breaking of our agreement," the man is saying to no one in particular.

The words begin to fade in and out. McCoy's legs turn to jelly and he falls to his hands and knees. Oh shit, no. Drugged. _Fuck!_

"...but I cannot act otherwise..."

Two polished black shoes enter into Leonard's narrowing field of vision. He tries to say Spock's name, to say _you bastard_.

"To answer your initial question, Mr. McCoy, of 'why me?' I can only say this—something I believe your partner already understands infinitely well—"

McCoy doesn't catch those final words because he blacks out, confusedly thinking of first Jim then Spock and back to Jim again.

~~~

Spock had said: "...you are a temptation. I do not yet understand it to the extent Kirk does but I fully intend to."

_\- Fini_


	18. The Case of the Mondays, Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saga continues; nothing goes as planned unless you are the bad guy.

Most cops are fools, bureaucratic puppets, or both. Chekov has believed this since he killed his first man and no one cared enough to investigate the death. Now Chekov intends to work among such men, and he doubts the experience shall be sufficient enough to make him revise his long-held opinion of them.

The earplugs do little to muffle the sound of gunfire. Other trainees flinch at the sound, even at the backfire of the weapon in their hands. Some look frightened to be holding a gun; others, determined to succeed. Chekov forcibly reminds himself not to be relaxed as he takes his turn at target practice.

The paperwork arrived last night in an unmarked envelope, as promised. A new job. He will be infiltrating the precinct in James Kirk's jurisdiction.

Kirk—such a familiar name. But why?

The corner of Chekov's mouth curves lazily. Ah.

Kirkman's schoolgirl problem. Here, in America, it could be an euphemism for a sexual situation, a dirty joke. To the erudite men of Russia who spend their days in university conjecturing, lecturing, and sometimes solving great problems, it is a mathematician's combinatorial wet-dream.

He recites the problem in his mind as he adjusts his grip on the gun and sends a cascade of bullets flying into the paper outline of a man:  
 _Fifteen young ladies in school walk out three abreast for seven days in succession: it is required to arrange them daily so that no two shall walk twice abreast._

The answer is, of course, now called a Kirkman triple system. Seven non-isomorphic solutions. Take a Steiner system S(t,k,n) where t = 2 and k = 3, with a parallelism such that the partitioning of blocks are divided into parallel classes; the partitions themselves then become representative of the points of disjoint blocks... or, another way, define a packing into a finite projective space.

He could stand here and recall each solution, and occupy his mind with something more useful than this pawn's game assigned to him. Instead, Chekov takes the next two shots in rapid succession— _six_ and _seven_ —and lowers his gun to his side, relaxing his stance.

Over the noise of the firing range, the young pock-faced man in the next booth shouts, "Hey, that's pretty good!"

Yes.

Good but not great. Not _perfect_. Two hits in the belly, one near the left temple but slightly off; it could be a flesh wound, enough to slow a killer down but not take him out.

Or each hole in the target could be a precise placement of one of those points in the Kirkman triple system; connected by the proper lines, the graphical solution is obvious.

But not to these would-be cops, who are fools.

He pretends endearing gratitude to the instructor scoring his test. _Thank you, Sir_ and _I vill keep practicing!_ What does it matter that his first true profession was as a long-range sniper?

When the men close to his age group speak of an after-party at a local bar, he does not hesitate to invite himself. He knows they want to like him, these men who yearn to be the symbol of law and order (to be _cops_ , Chekov sneers inwardly), and as a budding policeman, he has every intention of acting the part.

Until he is told otherwise by his boss, that is.

[~~~]

The rookie cop, in truth, cut his teeth on every-day street crimes of his native country (petty theft among them), and as he grew from boy to man, honed his skills in the intricacy of organized crime under the patronage of a Bratva. But the enmity within the Russian brotherhood was a guarantee of violent death, and on the day his patron's house was raided and burned he made the necessary relocation to the States to survive. He brought with him only his university education (a cover but a legitimate one) and his budding career as a killer.

His forged papers named him as Pavel Chekov, dual citizen of Russia and the United States, and as Pavel Chekov he lived, working odd, menial jobs while freelancing under the alias _Unynie_ (a tribute to the name of the first gang—the Black Dogs—he joined at the age of fourteen). In the largest U.S. cities, he was one of millions of nameless foreign faces; during the periods of "lying low", he stayed in unmemorable backwater towns. The money as an assassin-for-hire was plentiful but he found himself missing something, an elusive thing he had left behind in Russia.

It wasn't until he was contacted by Mr. Spock and told, "It is understandable that men of your profession are loners, Mr. Chekov" he began to recall what that something was. The bold statement alone immediately caught his attention because it meant this Spock had traced him to his U.S. registered name; therefore one of two scenarios had to happen: either Chekov had to like what he heard, or at the end of the call determine a way to eliminate the breach in security; more simply put, find the man and terminate him.

Mr. Spock finished by saying, "However, you do not strike me as that type of man. In return for your fealty, I can provide you with more interesting work than the occasional monotonous kill."

"What type of work?" he had asked while tracing the call via his laptop.

"To the public eye, I specialize in the theft of antiquities and art."

The trace finished decoding; an address flashed across his computer screen. "Ah. And vhat is your real work?"

There was a pause. Then, "Everything. I assume you have now established my location. Might I persuade you to join me for a... trial run?"

Chekov thought about his next two bookings—the elimination of someone's potential Senate rival, and the death of a housewife able to legitimately win most of her husband's assets in their up-coming divorce—and conceded that this person might have a valid point. "Send me a ticket. But not first-class," he warned.

"Of course not," agreed Mr. Spock. "First-class is for those who wish to be caught, which I suspect, Mr. Chekov, is in the cards for neither of _us_."

[~~~]

Spock turns out not to be a liar. Even now, Chekov is highly entertained by his "work." Tonight, for instance, is an excellent example.

One would assume the Policeman's Ball would be the worst place to stage a kidnapping. In truth, it is the easiest. Security is at a bare minimum; after all, who would be crazy enough to commit a crime in a room full of cops?

If only these fools knew, Chekov thinks as he twitches the drapery aside and pauses at the entrance to the veranda. Time to begin.

Kirk is predictable in many ways; by that standard, P.I. Leonard McCoy is more so. Why Chekov's boss seems obsessed with these men is beyond his comprehension... but he isn't paid to comprehend his boss's whims, only obey them.

He shows himself to the occupants of the veranda, saying softly, _"Mr. McCoy?"_

He does not let his eyes linger too long on the man standing stiffly behind Captain Kirk's lover. Besides, McCoy's face is more interesting; the private detective looks torn between horror at being caught with the infamous art thief and giddy for that every reason.

Chekov's face transforms into apologetic innocence. _"I did not realize you had company. I am sorry. I—"_

It is easy to play this role.

Spock's eyes flash with amusement as McCoy gives Chekov the task of finding the errant captain of the police force but McCoy is at the wrong angle to see it. Chekov keeps his own amusement to himself. When he leaves McCoy alone with Spock to complete a supposed mission to relay a cryptic message to Kirk, he instead slips seamlessly through the shadows along the ballroom's walls, unimposing, unnoticeable. Only when he exits the main entrance of the ballroom does he make a point of nodding to familiar faces, lifting a cigarette from a small silver case with practiced ease.

Someone asks him if he can spare an extra cigarette. He does, and also lights it for the man. Then he begins his casual stroll through the parking lot, seeming to drift without purpose.

Chekov gives Mr. Spock ten minutes to ensnare and situate the intended prey before the tracking the man to the service entrance at the back of the town hall. There he finishes the last drag of his cigarette while watching his boss slide McCoy's limp body into a dark van. It is amusing how Spock treats McCoy with care, like a prize.

Chekov has learned over the years he can discover all of a man's secrets by simply observing him. What he is learning about Spock tonight may be of no consequence to a regular criminal; to him, however, an trained assassin, it is a weakness and perhaps the first fatal flaw he has seen in his otherwise unflappable and enigmatic boss.

This weakness is not a matter he will act upon unless his work becomes boring.

The lean, dark-haired thief closes the doors to the van and approaches Chekov.

Chekov grins and lets the rest of his cigarette fall to the ground, unheeded. "In Russia, we have a saying."

Spock courteously inclines his head.

Chekov tells him, "Алты́нного во́ра ве́шают, а полти́нного че́ствуют."

Spock translates, "Little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape."

"Da, that is the idea. Which are you?"

A corner of Spock's mouth lifts briefly and, as an answer, his fist does not strike Chekov's jaw with the strength of a weak man. He would laugh at that, but they must not draw attention. Not for another scheduled four and a half minutes.

Upon Chekov's frantic search for Kirk, the blossoming bruise, he surmises, must be impressive. Certainly it is convincing.

Then again, perhaps Kirk needs no further convincing after he listens to Pavel Chekov say, "Keptin, it is Mr. McCoy! Someone has taken him!"

The sudden pallor of James Kirk's face is evidence enough that he believes this horrible news to be true.

~~~

When the searching turns into a full-blown investigation, and Kirk is relentlessly driving his men to find McCoy and two days later is at a precipice that might be insanity, the ransom note arrives. The FBI don't have a chance to look at it before Sulu, haggard from too little sleep and too much caffeine, snatches it up upon arrival (via postal service of all things) and takes it directly to Kirk.

The silence in the precinct is deafening, then, up until Kirk explodes out of his office, running for the exit. Only Sulu and two other cops bearing down upon the man put a halt to his flight. Kirk, Chekov decides, in that moment may be close to violence against his own men but he is much closer to madness.

They won't let him go until he agrees to put on a bullet-proof vest. Meanwhile, the entire department shatters into chaotic activity as men begin unearthing their own vests, restocking and checking their already loaded weapons. It seems an army is after Spock this time, not just a simple band of uniformed men chasing the art thief to-and-fro in a museum like a parody of Keystone Cops.

As a rookie, Chekov shouldn't be part of the main team preparing to descend on the coordinates of the warehouse. But he intervenes, surprising his comrades with his fierce request, and manages to catch Kirk's attention.

"Let me come, Keptin," he begs. "It is my fault. Let me help!"

The flat sheen to Kirk's blue eyes fades for a moment as he hears Chekov's words; the captain breaks free from his own personal hell long enough to answer in return. "This isn't your fault, Pavel." And with a sharp jerk of a nod, "All right. Suit up and follow Sulu's team."

No one gainsays the Captain.

~~~

McCoy will not be at the location on the note but these fools won't know that. The structure of the building is large enough that they have to break into small groups to search the entirety of it. He hears over the radio the moment Kirk finds the chair McCoy was tied to, the crashing of temper and pain in the background. Sulu's voice is strained but professional, even in a deeply personal situation, Chekov discovers. He tells everyone to carry on.

Kirk won't stop looking until he has scoured every crack in the walls, and he won't listen to the feds who tell him to go home and let them do their jobs. That is how Pavel Chekov winds up tagging along after Kirk into the second wing of the warehouse while others fan out in pairs to dig up clues of the missing McCoy.

It isn't difficult to feign finding a dirty scrap of McCoy's black shirt; Spock is always thorough in the details of what he wants accomplished and how, when, and where. Kirk is at his side in an instant, taking the cloth from him with gentle but shaking hands.

Chekov says nothing as the man turns away to regain control of himself and his obvious emotion. That is Kirk's undoing. He never sees Chekov strike out with his gun; never knows about the blow to come; never realizes betrayal is imminent when one least expects it.

The event is anticlimactic. Chekov watches Kirk crumple to the floor, sorely disappointed, and points his gun at the back of Kirk's head with a killer's precision. The metal of weapon is heated by the flesh of his palm but otherwise the most important parts of it are tragically cold, having not been warmed up by the action of firing it. He could change that, so easily.

"Mr. Chekov."

The sound of his name is tense, a warning. He does not look toward the man emerging from the shadows just as he does not outwardly acknowledge the warning. He keeps his gun trained on the unconscious body of Kirk. "I do not understand vhy you vill not let me kill him."

"He is more useful alive" comes the low, dangerous response. "You will not harm him."

Chekov looks at the tiny puddle of blood pooling under Kirk's head and thinks with satisfaction that he already has. He thumbs the safety back into position on his gun and finally turns to look at his boss.

"I can be a merciful man," he says, "but I believe it is wiser to be the one who is not merciful. If you let him live, that is your mistake."

"Duly noted, Mr. Chekov."

Activating the feed on his walkie-talkie, Chekov listens for a moment then advises, "You have ten minutes."

Spock has already lifted Kirk into a fireman's carry. "You will be notified with further instructions."

"Yes, Sir," he murmurs and moves toward the other end of the hall. He does not ask about this particular change of plans or of the sudden desire of Mr. Spock to kidnap Kirk as well as McCoy. It is not his duty to ask, not his concern.

They will arrive soon, those foolish men who think they know him. Chekov eyes a wide, paint-peeling pillar running from floor to ceiling. With the nozzle of his firearm, he traces an imaginary X in one spot at his height. Then tossing the gun to the floor (safety off again), he grabs a hold of the pillar, closes his eyes, breathes in once, deeply, and proceeds to slam his forehead against the concrete, face perfectly angled for optimal damage.

Pain blinds him for a second, makes him stumble to his knees. His fingers come away wet from the fresh wound.

That is how they find him, poor rookie Pavel, dazed and groping blindly for his lost gun.

"What happened?" somebody asks of him.

"The Keptin! You must help him!" he cries pitifully, swallowing hard, certain he looks ill, for his head throbs horrendously.

"Pavel!" The snap of Sulu's unyielding tone demands his attention, despite the gentleness with which the man tilts Chekov's cheek in his direction. "Where is the Captain?"

"There vas a man, I do not know, a man and the Keptin saw him and yelled—" He breaks off, not bothering to hide his soft moan of pain.

"Kelso, get the fuckin' medics over here! Pavel, _Pavel_ , can you hear me?"

He nods weakly.

"What happened to Captain Kirk?"

"I do not know, sir," he says, pale-faced and earnest, looking into Sulu's eyes. "I vas attacked... from behind, I think." He drops his head, going limp in the arms of the officer supporting him, and whispers, "Forgive me, I do not know."

_-Fini_


	19. The Case of the Mondays, Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With both of them in danger, one will have to make a sacrifice.

_..."Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown—"_

_Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy._

_"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting_ his _fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man."*_

At the opening of the library door, McCoy looks up from the novel in his lap, his index finger poised in the action of turning a page, and blinks, his imagining of Netherfield and condescending rich gentlemen interrupted by the noise.

He had originally snitched _Pride and Prejudice_ from one of Spock's bookcases with the intention of investigating the nuances of his captor's personality. He had expected to find, perhaps, the well-used book to be some sort of secret code decipher or a rouse in which to hide Spock's evil plans; instead it seems Spock is exceedingly fond of this love story, as evidenced by the dog-eared pages and crumbling spine. McCoy himself, having never read any of Austen's works before, had become unexpectedly and increasingly engrossed in the world of the Bennets, Bingleys, and Darcys, forgetting for an hour his ill temper at the art thief and determination to find a way to free himself.

He cannot see the door from the angle of his wing-backed leather chair (it's quite comfortable; Spock evidently spares no expense for luxury) but he knows nobody would dare enter this library except its owner. McCoy, ready for another verbal spar, uncrosses his legs and tosses the first barb over the top of the chair. "You know, you'd make a perfect Mr. Darcy, Spock. He's as ego-bloated in fiction as you are in real life."

Instead of the anticipated dry retort comes a breathless " _Bones?_ "

Leonard instantly forgets about Spock; the book tumbles from his lap as he abandons the chair with haste, hardly daring to hope. But it is Jim, standing just inside the door to the library. He cries his lover's name.

One moment they are across the room, far apart and both equally surprised, and the next they are in each other's arms. Jim's hands dig into the back of McCoy's borrowed shirt, as if Jim never intends to let him go, and Leonard returns the hold just as fiercely. They need no words between them to express their mutual joy. It is some minutes before Leonard reluctantly eases back, pressing his mouth to Jim's solidly as he does so.

After the kiss, he asks roughly, "How'd you find me?"

Jim's eyes are tear-bright but the question seems to cause the man's expression to turn hard like stone. "I'm going to kill him," Kirk says darkly.

Is McCoy supposed to argue with that? But he gives Jim's shoulders a light shake. "Before you go doing the obvious, we oughta have an escape route picked out."

Jim bares his teeth, no doubt still thinking of Spock, and it isn't in a friendly grin. "We'll get out, Bones, no matter what. I promise."

Leonard steps back with a sigh. "Please tell me you noticed the security on this joint. I swear to God, he's got _guard dogs_." He had heard one of them howling last night just down the hallway leading to his "guest room" and had lain awake, uneasy, for some hours until he was exhausted. The morning, however, had revealed no evidence of a nightly visit by the resident Baskerville Hound.

Running a hand through his hair, he moves toward the wide bay window of the library. He thinks about the situation they are in and draws a conclusion he doesn't like. "You didn't find me, did you? He brought you here." Leonard watches Jim's tripled reflection in the panes of the window. The way Jim clenches and unclenches his fist, fighting down fury, is answer enough.

McCoy says simply, "Tell me."

Jim starts toward him, stops. The words sound forced, as if Kirk hates to say them. "He took you. At the ball."

"When did Spock get you?" he wants to know. His story is old news by now, no sense in prodding painful wounds.

"At a warehouse. I thought it might be a trap but..." Jim swallows hard. "He _did_ keep you there, didn't he?"

Leonard nods. "I was there for a day, I think. Not long at all, considering circumstances." His mouth quirks with humor. "I accused the bastard of re-enacting every cheesy gangster movie known to Man. Said if he was gonna put me in cement boots, he might as well get on with it and toss me in the river 'cause I had no hankering to share space with rats for a week."

Jim makes a suppressed noise of dismay.

"So a couple of hours later he sedated me, packed me up, and brought me here." Imagine his surprise upon coming to consciousness in a cozy bed and a tray of tea and biscuits and fresh fruit. Spock is the craziest criminal he has ever met.

For a few seconds, they look around at the neatly arranged, mahogany-paneled library. "Is this... his house?" Jim mutters, turning to eyeball the door left standing open with suspicion. The hallway beyond is quiet and empty.

Leonard answers the question because Spock kindly provided with that information two days ago. "Yes. One of his houses, I'm guessing. I have a room upstairs with a bathroom the size of Canada. And take a look out here." He motions to the window.

Jim walks to the bay window and stares out at the scenery, silent and pensive as he thinks. Leonard watches Jim's face, ridiculously glad they are together.

"It's the Rockies," McCoy supplies after a moment. "I think maybe we're in Colorado."

Jim turns to him, a hint of relieved amusement flashing in his eyes. "Why Colorado, Bones? Is it the snow?"

"Well clearly we ain't in the desert, kid."

"Like you'd know the difference. You grew up in the Everglades."

McCoy pinches at Jim's arm. "How many times do I have to explain geography to a bonehead like you? I was born in the _deep South_ , not the fucking swamp."

Falling back into their usual, loving banter dispels any tension bleeding into their reunion. Jim tugs McCoy to him until they are almost touching and wraps a warm hand around the back of his neck to hold him there.

"Bones," Jim murmurs, lips against his ear. "Bones, I thought I was going to die without you..."

Leonard is too old to melt like a lovesick teenager into this man's arms but his body is doing a decent impression of butter. Thank God Spock brought Jim.

His eyes fly open on the heels of that thought, and his entire body jerks in astonishment. Jim captures his chin, saying with concern, "Bones, what?"

_Thank God Spock brought him?_

No. He did not think that.

He _fucking_ did not think that! He—

"Jim," he begs urgently, "we have to get out of here. Now. Right now!"

Jim squeezes his arm, a show of comfort, and agrees. "I need..." Jim stares at the library in an entirely new way. "I need a weapon," the man finishes grimly.

McCoy's heart pounds harder in his chest. A weapon. Of course they need a weapon, because Spock isn't going to let them walk out the front door. No, Spock had told him... "...you cannot leave until we have reached a resolution." He lifts his eyes to Jim's. "That's what Spock said. He's crazy, Jim. I don't think..." He trails off.

_I don't think Spock wants me to leave him. And if I tell you that I might as well stab you in the heart myself._

This is too fucked up for him. Spock is crossing lines McCoy didn't know existed. And he doesn't trust himself to react in the rational way anymore, not after a kiss which should have never happened.

Someone is tugging on his hand. Leonard opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to find Jim saying, "Let's go." He stares at the brass candlestick in Jim's hand.

It was the general in the library with the candlestick, his brain supplies weirdly. Then, Get a grip on yourself, McCoy!

Freeing his hand from Jim's, he grabs the twin to Jim's candlestick and tests the weight of it. "Okay," Leonard says, "I'm ready." He doesn't need to add _Let's get the fuck out of here already._

He is prepared for locked doors; he had tried to break one down—after failing to pick its lock first—the moment he had woken to captivity here and only succeeded in spraining his shoulder. He is prepared for the shatter-proof windows (tossing a chair at one had proved disaster when it rebounded at McCoy's head). He is even prepared for those elusive guard dogs to make a snack of he and Jim.

Leonard does not expect, as he and Jim silently sneak along a hallway, to have Spock walk out of a room in a house robe and slippers and a cup of coffee in each hand.

The three of them freeze in place.

Spock's eyes slide quickly from Kirk to McCoy then down to the candlesticks in their hands. One of his eyebrows slowly arches. "Ah. I had not realized you would attempt escape this soon." He lifts the two mugs slightly. "I brought you refreshments."

Kirk takes a stance Leonard has seen a thousand times. If Jim had a gun, it would be pointed directly at Spock's head.

"We're not interested in your hospitality," the cop almost snarls. "You kidnapped Bones! I warned you not to—I _warned_ you, Spock, and that was where I screwed up, because I thought you weren't the usual kind of two-faced shitbag I always deal with."

That... is not the you-are-under-arrest spiel McCoy expected to hear from his partner.

"Jim? Jim, what—?" When did Jim talk to Spock?

"I was wrong," Kirk finishes, voice hard, "but my mistake doesn't negate your crime."

Spock's eyes are fixed on Kirk; his bland expression gives nothing away. But then, McCoy learned long ago that what Spock says often is more meaningful than what he does.

The man's words are spoken softly, almost gently. "Jim, I did not intend to lie to you. However certain... events took place which I could not ignore. I—" Spock grows quiet for a moment. "—am sorry."

Whether the apology affects Jim or not, it rocks McCoy. He has never heard the art thief mean those words before. Generally it's _I am sorry you acted so foolishly_ or _I am sorry you are inconvenienced by my diabolical plans_ or _'I am sorry' because these words make me seem polite_.

Jim's knuckles are white where he is gripping his candlestick. "I don't accept your apology. Now stay the fuck out of our way."

McCoy, being no fool, sidles along the wall on Jim's heels as they cautiously edge past the statue-like Spock. He is shocked, certainly, but also suddenly hopeful they are going to make it out of here unscathed. Maybe Spock really _is_ sorry, maybe...

"If you attempt to leave before advised, matters will go ill for you, Kirk."

Goddamn it. That unyielding tone is back. Before McCoy can cry "Run!" to Jim, a shadow appears at the end of the hallway where the stairs meet the second floor. And the shadow growls.

"Dog," Leonard doesn't quite squeak.

This is not fair. Why does Spock have to have a dog when McCoy is slightly more than terrified of dogs. In front of him, Jim stiffens.

"Bones, stay behind me."

At the same time, Spock says, "I would be remiss in not allowing time for your injury to heal before you depart."

Leonard is torn between imagining the biggest, mangiest, blood-thirstiest beast in all of creation and trying to make sense of Spock's statement. He settles for "I'm not injured, dumbass. I thought your doctor explained that to you ten times already."

Spock has discarded the coffee mugs on a side table. "Yes, that is accurate, Mr. McCoy. Your partner, unfortunately, upon his examination did not agree with my physician that his concussion warrants care. The doctor found him infinitely more trying than you, or so I was duly informed."

Leonard's candlestick almost brains Jim of its own volition. "YOU HAVE A CONCUSSION?" he yells too close to Kirk's ear.

Jim throws him a _not now, Bones_ look. "I'm fine. Just keep behind me, Bones, and we'll make it past the dog."

"I don't care about the _dog!_ " McCoy snaps back (but really he does because _raging canine_ and _it's gonna eat him like a juicy steak, oh hell_ ). "You didn't tell me you were hurt, Jim!"

"And that's Spock's fault so the sooner we get away from him the better!"

"Technically," interrupts their kidnapper, "the injury was not of my doing." Suddenly the dog-shadow stops growling, as though Spock's voice is a trigger, and whines instead. Spock calls calmly, "Come, Plato."

The dog rounding the corner of the stairs is less of a monster and more of a fluffy brown-and-white cocker spaniel. It trots past Jim and Leonard and barks excitedly at Spock, who feeds it something small and crunchy procured from a pocket of the house robe. But when Spock does not give it another treat, Plato points its furry face in McCoy's direction—and growls.

Jim's hustle along the unguarded hallway (and toward freedom) is only slightly hampered by Leonard's clinging to his back and whispering, "Jim, Jim, I think that dog wants to hurt me." They reach the stairs without incident. They make it to the front door (why the hell is this house divided into wings? it's confusing the hell out of McCoy's sense of direction) without meeting any untoward or threatening presences. The front door itself is unlocked.

McCoy is thinking this is too easy the moment they step foot beyond the door and somebody takes a practice shot at Jim's ear and a bullet lodges in the wood of the door behind them. Leonard hauls Jim backward on instinct and they fall into a heap on the foyer of Spock's home.

"What the fuck?" Leonard shouts, mainly because his hearing is vibrating from the heartstoppingly close impact of the gunshot.

A voice clears politely. Spock has, it seems, followed them.

"That was an acquaintance of mine with a penchant for sniper rifles," they are advised. "I fear you will be unable to locate him by sight but rest assured he is there."

Leonard looks at Spock, incredulous. "You're going to shoot us if we leave?"

"No," Spock corrects. "Mr. Chekov will shoot you."

McCoy is speechless at first. Pavel... oh, shit, _Pavel!_ But why did Spock...

"You had the clues. It was only a matter of time before his involvement was confirmed," Spock answers McCoy's unspoken question.

Jim's reaction is slow, much too slow. For a second, McCoy thinks he is too dazed to respond. Until Jim says, clear as day, "He's not the first mole you've planted in my unit, Spock."

"No," Spock agrees.

"But he'll be the last," Jim states tonelessly. Then Kirk is on his feet, striding to the open door again.

Leonard cries in alarm, "Jim!" A tiny part of his brain acknowledges that Spock has echoed McCoy's cry for Kirk with equal surprise.

Jim ignores them. He stops at the threshold, facing the outdoors, eyes narrowed and stance issuing a silent challenge. "Chekov's been itching to put a bullet in me from day one. You think I don't recognize that look in a man's eyes by now? And that warning shot of his..." The corner of Jim's mouth lifts. "...was only for me. He won't touch McCoy, will he, Spock?"

Spock seems frozen, his reply caught by tiny hitches of his breath. "Jim..."

"Will he?" Jim demands, turning to burn his gaze into Spock's dark, questioning eyes.

Spock doesn't sound steady at all. "No, I—no. Not McCoy."

Silhouetted in the sunlight, Jim finally settles his eyes on Leonard. In them is everything he won't say in front of Spock: _I love you_ and _please, Bones, I hope you understand_. It's his Captain's voice he uses when he speaks to McCoy: "You need to leave, Bones."

Without Jim? The very thought is alien to McCoy. "I won't," he says stubbornly.

"You will."

"We're not splitting up, Jim!"

"If you don't," his lover says, unrelenting, "I will walk out this door."

He makes a move toward Jim but stops the second his partner shifts away, a single step from putting himself in the line of fire. "Jim, what the fuck are you doing!" McCoy has never known panic like this before. "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE DOOR!"

"Bones," Jim murmurs, "don't you see? If you leave, you're safe. If I die, you're safe. Spock, the cop-killer," he says, voice flat. "He knows he can't hold you after that, can't play his games. He will be the most wanted man in country."

 _And I'll hate him. I'll never forgive him if you die,_ McCoy thinks. As it is, he hates himself when he says, "Okay. I get it, just—Jim, _please_ , don't do this."

Jim's eyes are soft; they have the same look Leonard wakes to some mornings to find Jim watching him. Those mornings, they love each other so sweetly it makes his heart tremble to think of it.

"You'll go for me, Bones?" asks Jim.

He nods, unable to speak.

Jim steps aside, making room for him to pass through the door. Every step Leonard takes turns him into more of a wreck; but with every step, he promises himself the same thing over and over again. He tells Jim that same promise once he is outside, just an arm's length away from the man he is leaving behind.

He says, "You'd better not do anything stupid, Jim, because I am coming back for you."

Jim only smiles at him.

McCoy looks beyond Jim to Spock. "I am coming back for you, too, Spock," he adds. "When I do, you'd better start running."

Spock, like Jim, is silent but unlike Jim, does not show relief or hope or love at the threat. He is eerily blank, if pale; but he is, in some strange way, McCoy senses, waiting.

Yet waiting for what, Leonard does not know.

Walking away from Jim is the hardest thing he has ever done. But he is not going far, he thinks. He is going to catch that deviant Pavel. Then rescue Jim.

_-Fini_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - excerpt from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen


	20. The Case of the Mondays, Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good - or bad - things must come to an end.

"Pacing will only exacerbate your condition."

Jim grits his teeth and continues to ignore his kidnapper. When he reaches the end of the library, he pivots on the ball of his foot and strides back toward the opposite side of the room. He is fairly helpless do anything else; but pacing... Spock cannot stop him from doing that, at the very least.

Beginning a fourth loop, Jim turns away from the empty fireplace to find the art thief standing a hair's breadth away—and directly blocking Jim's well-worn path in the oriental rug.

He warns the man, "Get out my way."

"Would you like a drink?" Spock inquires casually, as though Jim isn't seconds away from murdering him.

"No!" the cop snaps. The last thing he needs is to dull his reflexes.

Something akin to vexation flickers through Spock's dark eyes. "You will not have a drink, nor will you concede to touch the lunch I provided. Jim, you are behaving unreasonably. Depriving yourself of nourishment does no injury to me. Even McCoy was not so foolish."

Hearing Spock talk about Bones has the effect of boiling Jim's blood. He goes with his first, most intense reaction and lets his fist fly. Spock catches Jim's fist in one hand and detains it mid-punch.

"Do not," the man says very softly, "think to use violence against my person. I can, and will, retaliate."

Jim lets loose his dare-devil grin. "I'm prepared for that."

But Spock replies, "No, Jim, I do not think you are." He lets go of Jim's hand and takes a step back, only remarking after a silent, tense moment, "I will be downstairs in the main hall. When you have... calmed enough to accept your situation, I ask that you join there."

Jim shouts at Spock's retreating back, incensed and perturbed at the same time, "I'll never be okay with this, Spock—never! I won't be your prisoner!"

The gentle click of the library door as it closes is the only response to Jim's pronouncement. Frustrated beyond belief, Jim grabs the back of a chair. The action keeps him from snatching the nearest object—which happens to be a miniature ivory carving of an elephant—and throwing it at a wall. He digs his fingers into the supple leather, scoring it with his nails. Jim almost screams but, knowing how important emotional control is if he wants to survive, bites viciously down on his tongue instead.

It's all fun and games until someone gets kidnapped. Or worse yet, until someone dies. Jim is under no illusion his situation isn't direly serious. But that means nothing to him in the scheme of things. He paces because if he doesn't move, fear may burrow into the very marrow of his bones and leave him whimpering on the floor. He can't shake a nagging feeling, the kind that only ever surfaces when he imagines something has happened or will happen to Leonard.

And if Bones is going to do what Jim suspects he is, Jim shall never know peace again.

Damn Spock! Why can't he see what he's done to them? Why can't he see what will result from forcing Jim and Leonard apart?

 _Bones,_ Jim thinks desperately, clinging to the chair now to support his suddenly wobbly legs, _be safe. Don't... just don't get yourself killed._

~~~

Leonard isn't planning on getting himself killed but, you know, shit happens.

Chekov looks down the scope of the rifle at him, grinning like a damned Cheshire cat.

McCoy is not a fucking canary to be played around with before it gets eaten. He snaps out, flat on his back in a snow bank, "Well, which is it? Are you gonna shoot me or smirk at me all day, kid? One bullet to the head oughta make things permanent."

"Da," agrees the chipper-looking maniac with the gun. "However, I think if I shoot you, Mr. McCoy, I will be out of wery entertaining work."

Leonard purposefully flings snow at Chekov as he sits up. The sniper doesn't even flinch.

"You'll be out one of your nine lives, is what'll happen," Leonard counters. "Spock ain't too pleasant to people who hurt his—his..."

Uh. Shit.

Chekov says it for him. "His vhat?"

"His toys," he finishes, pressing his lips together in a thin, unhappy line.

"Ah," murmurs the man. Then, "You must be a favorite toy of Mr. Spock's. I would not vant to break his favorite toy." And, surprising McCoy, he lowers the rifle and unscrews its silencer. "Come," orders the young man, "it is time we returned you to your toy box."

Leonard grimaces as he stands up, thinking he should never have given Chekov that analogy. Upright and out of that blistering cold snow, he gently prods the corner of his mouth, wincing at the immediate throb. Chekov has a solid, mean punch.

He decides it is unfair that his opponent appears untouched while Leonard feels rumpled and sore. Also, he finds it a little unnerving how the smaller man so efficiently brought him down. Their confrontation had lasted all of two embarrassingly short minutes, whereupon Leonard ended up on his back with the business end of a gun in his face. Chekov has, apparently, had the kind of vicious hand-to-hand combat training Leonard never received, not even from those free karate lessons paid for on behalf of Spock.

He asks, trudging through the snow in front of Pavel, "How long have you been part of Spock's team?"

"No talking" comes the sharp response.

Well, fuck. That's all Leonard is good at, talking. If he cannot talk, he can't solve a puzzle.

Stubborn to a fault, he takes his chances that Pavel won't shoot him point-blank between the shoulder blades. "You seemed pretty gung-ho to eliminate Captain Kirk. You must hate cops."

Silence. Leonard decides that might be a sign of resignation to conversation.

"Was it so bad," he muses, subtly digging for information he can use, "working at the precinct? There are cops who are a-holes for sure but most of Jim's unit happen to be decent folk."

"Mr. McCoy," a cold, cold voice states, "if you do not stop talking, I vill stop you from talking."

He clears his throat nervously. "Name's Leonard, Pavel. Done told you that a thousand times if I told you once."

He isn't expecting the hard shove from behind. Leonard drops to his knees, shivering at the icy bite of snow against his skin. He watches warily as Pavel circles him like wolf scenting the right weak angle to strike. When the man comes to a standstill, rifle still strapped—untouched—to his back, Chekov double-checks the ammunition in his handgun and finally lets his narrowed gaze release McCoy from a terrifying hold.

"I do not care what your name is," the inexplicably hard-faced man tells him. "That is Mr. Spock's first mistake—he cares. Do not believe me to be like him."

"I—"

The muzzle of the gun is aimed at his head. "Lie down."

McCoy's heart skips a beat or two, painfully so, but he manages to protest, "In the damn snow?"

Pavel Chekov says nothing, which is warning enough. Leonard stretches out and does his level best not to plant his face against the ground. His neck muscles strain with the effort.

The other man is, if anything, quick about his business. Before long, Leonard's hands are tied securely behind his back with nylon rope. Chekov rolls him over and orders him to get up. With undue ceremony, a cloth is shoved into his mouth. Chekov looks Leonard over afterwards, seemingly approving of his work. They start marching again, one laboring step at a time, along the side of a steep hill.

Leonard is too preoccupied at balancing so he doesn't fall over and roll the rest of the way down the hill to notice the quiet curse behind him. Out of nowhere, Chekov's hand grabs at his shoulder. Leonard fumbles forward but catches himself in the act of falling and makes a muffled squawk of _what the hell? don't tilt me, idiot!_

"Be silent," hisses the man, dropping into a crouch and dragging McCoy with him.

Leonard looks on frank curiosity as Pave concentrates elsewhere, watching something through a small pair of binoculars. McCoy squints hard in the direction of interest but he can see nothing except more glistening snow and the tops of a few pine trees.

The man curses again, softly, in Russian. Then he is un-strapping and readying his rifle in short, staggered but professional motions. "You brought them!" Chekov accuses McCoy in thick English as he works.

 _Can't fucking talk with the gag in my mouth, dumbass._ He tries to make as many annoying sounds as possible.

Chekov flicks at an angry look at him. "Shut up, or I may shoot you on accident."

As opposed to on purpose, like he threatened some ten minutes ago? This one's nuttier than peanut butter. Where the hell does Spock find his thugs?

The man next to McCoy is asking, "Which should I target first, Mr. McCoy? There are four of them."

Four of...?

Leonard shakes his head like a dog, suddenly in a cold sweat and swearing, _Take the damned gag out, take it out, you bastard!_

Chekov isn't gentle as he rips it from Leonard's mouth, demanding, "Vhat!"

He asks, panting, "Who... what...?"

"Kelso, Roberts. Sulu. One man I do not know," Chekov supplies, mechanically listing the human beings he is about to kill. "In the trees. They are watching us." The corner of Chekov's mouth curves lazily. "Da, but I am _watching_ them, too."

"Pavel," McCoy says, heart pounding, "you aren't going to kill anybody."

"No?" The young man's finger strokes the trigger of the rifle. "I can see the links in the chain around Sulu's neck. Vhat do you call them? His _dog_ tags."

"Chekov," Leonard says again, voice stronger, "I said you aren't gonna kill anybody."

 _Click._ The safety being removed on a gun.

Chekov freezes, his shoulders coiled tight. He does not lift his head from where it is angled to accommodate the curve of the rifle against his shoulder. "How did you loosen the ropes?" he asks mildly, as if Leonard isn't pointing his own gun at him.

"Letter opener up my sleeve," Leonard explains, proud but edgy. "Filched it from Spock's library, just in case." And thank God he had had that foresight.

Chekov's murmuring is soft, almost wistful. "I did not think to check there."

Leonard stands up, gun still trained on Chekov, and hopes that Sulu and his men can spot him (Jesus-God, do _not_ shoot me instead, he prays) and figure out they'd better get their asses up here. Leonard doesn't imagine Chekov will lie there quietly to await his arrest.

Time is moving too slowly for his liking. He asks because he wants to know, "Tell me why."

"Why I vill kill Kirk?" Chekov finally cocks his head in Leonard's direction. "That is simple. He knew."

Knew?

Leonard hears a shout. Sulu's voice. He doesn't take his eyes off Chekov to confirm Jim's men are on their way. "What do you mean?"

"The Keptin knew what I was. That is why he let me follow him. I did not realize this until after, of course. I thought he was just stupid, to turn his back to me. Trusting. But," Chekov focuses on his gun again, "I misjudged. In his desk, I found a paper with a word on it."

Leonard isn't certain he can comprehend everything Pavel is saying. Leonard's profession, his need to know, drives him to keep asking questions. "What did it say?"

For a second he doesn't think Pavel is going to respond. But the man does, in a hushed tone like he is telling a secret. He tells Leonard, "It was my real name."

His _real_ name?

"McCoy!"

Just for a second, a split second, his attention is divided. That second is all Chekov needs. Leonard goes down with a sharp cry as Pavel sweeps his feet out from under him. Shots ring out in the air, bouncing in sounds waves off the nearby mountains. Men shout.

Leonard lies dazed in the snow, completely amazed that he isn't full of holes.

No, he isn't dead or even wounded. And Pavel Chekov, somehow, has vanished like a ghost. The rifle is gone too, while the handgun lies abandoned in the snow some feet from McCoy. He slowly sits up and stares at it.

The person dropping to his knees next to McCoy is Sulu, Jim's right-hand man. "You all right?"

Leonard blinks. "Yeah, I think so. Did you...?" He can't finish the question. Pavel is the sweet-faced kid he shared a beer with at a stag party for one of Jim's soon-to-be-married cops. They sang the same karaoke song.

Chekov, the killer, is nothing like earnest rookie Pavel. Reconciling them seems impossible but, truthfully, Leonard cannot wish either incarnation of Chekov dead.

"No," answers Sulu, perhaps feeling as Leonard does. "He didn't open fire on us so I... might have aimed a little wide."

That's fucking screwed up right there. Yet Leonard cannot blame Sulu for it.

He drags in a sudden breath and says a name simultaneously. " _Jim._ " The next words come out fiercely. "Sulu, we've got to get Jim!"

"Yeah," the other man agrees. "We have that covered."

~~~

By covered, Sulu means they have Spock's hide-away mansion surrounded; well, surrounded as best they can with it being on the edge of a mountain with a thousand-foot drop.

McCoy is all for breaking down the door and charging in. In fact, he is the first man in line behind the cop with the battering ram. These Colorado police are very cooperative with their out-of-state (and out-of-jurisdiction) brothers, it would seem. They don't protest Leonard insisting on being part of the raid. McCoy thinks some of that hospitable mentality should be credited to Sulu, who pretty much said, kidnap victim or not, he wasn't dumb enough to get between McCoy and his lover.

Bullet-proof-vested and armed, two dozen men flood the downstairs floor of Spock's home. Leonard heads for the second floor and its adjacent wing without hesitation, following his instinct. He doesn't give in to his need to cry out Jim's name and, instead, makes a methodical search of that eerily quiet part of Spock's house he is most familiar with, room-by-room. When Jim steps out of the library, probably wondering why doors are being kicked open, Leonard's anxiety and fear explodes into one flying tackle.

He realizes belatedly that tackling a concussed man is not the greatest idea in the world. "Jim," he says in a rush, "I forgot, oh God, I'm sorry! Open your eyes, damn it, how many fingers am I holding up?"

Jim blinks open his eyes on command and grins up at him, one hand leaving his temple to sink into Leonard's hair. "Bones, Bones—c'mere," Jim urges.

Leonard would be a fool to do otherwise. The kiss is the most poignant of Leonard's life. It means Jim is alive, he is alive, Spock be damned. He drags his mouth away from Kirk's in that instant to gasp, "Spock!"

Jim licks at his fervently kissed lips and answers the unspoken question uncertainly. "I don't know."

~~~

It turns out that nobody knows what happened to Spock.

The task force doesn't find him hiding on the premises. It's hypothesized he already knew the Kirk's policemen had been anonymously tipped and were en route to rescue Kirk and McCoy. He must have had an escape already planned, out a back door and into the pines bordering the property on a snowmobile, mayhap, or a land rover.

"I don't care if he fucking hang-glided off the cliff!" Leonard shouts. "HE GOT AWAY!"

Jim doesn't know if Bones is yelling just to be yelling or yelling at the scared-faced, clueless Colorado PD milling around the house. Somebody alerted the media and Jim can already see where they are setting up camp at the end of the drive within a desginated area.

Kirk sighs. "Bones."

McCoy may be yelling at people passing by but he refuses to let go of Jim's arm. Not that Jim is complaining. He would, however, appreciate less noise. He tries again. "Bones."

"—I'll skewer the son of a bitch when I get my hands on his scrawny neck—"

Jim rubs at his head, hoping the headache will go away on its own. Maybe the dizziness too, if he's lucky.

"—Jim? Hey, easy there, darlin', I got you."

Jim sighs again, never mind that he might be swaying slightly from vertigo, because he cannot stop thinking about his mistake. He is unaware of McCoy propping him up. "He knew I would never listen to him. "

Leonard caresses the side of his face with cold fingers. "Don't worry about it, Jim. Let it go, for today at least."

But he feels he has to say the words. "Bones, Spock _knows_ me. He said I had to accept I wasn't going to win and that—is something he has never said to me before. Normally it's Spock telling me I can beat him if I try harder. This time was a complete 180. Why did he tell me that?"

"To screw with you," Bones says instantly. "The man's a goddamn pain in our asses."

"No," Jim disagrees, "he said it so I wouldn't want to follow him."

Bones looks at him with startled consideration. "…So he could get away. _Fuck_." Growling, the private investigator adds, "Only thing that could this any shitter is if Spock tipped off the PD himself." As soon as the words are out of Leonard's mouth, they both groan aloud.

"God _damn_ it! That rich, evil bastard—"

Jim closes his eyes briefly, knowing he has no hope of stopping McCoy's rant now. "At least we're together," he points out whole-heartedly. Bones' arm is warm around him.

"Because of Spock," McCoy adds quietly.

Grimly, he keeps his silence. If Jim were to admit such, he would have to consider possibilities no law-enforcement officer should entertain. He _can't_ consider them, not as a dedicated cop sworn to his oath. Jim leans into McCoy, seeking a moment's support. As Leonard's arm tightens around him, he remembers he has that support for a lifetime. He doesn't intend to let Spock take Bones away from him again.

~~~

_six months later..._

_..."I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."*_

"Bones."

A soft grunt. The turning of page.

_"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way."_

_"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me."*_

"Booones."

"In a minute, Jim." He skips down the page to his favorite part.

_"My object then," replied Darcy, "was to show you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe—"*_

The book is stolen out of his hands.

"Hey! I was readin' that!" McCoy snaps upright from his comfortable slouch in a chair. He glowers his disapproval, trying to warn Jim to return the book before dire consequences abound, but his obnoxious partner places it in a cluttered drawer in his desk and locks said drawer with the explanation, "You've read it more times than I count. I should have never let you take it out of Evidence."

Leonard crosses his arms. "It's work, Jim. A case study." Wow, when did he become terrible at lying? Leonard blames his deteriorating skills on Jim's pretty face.

"No, it's not." Jim looks exasperated and a touch amused. "You're obsessed, Bones."

"So are you!" he retorts. "At least I don't call halfway across the country asking people if they've seen him. I'm not splitting the phone bill with you this month, by the way. Those long-distance charges are all your doin'."

"What I'm _doing_ is my _job_."

"Admit it, mundane criminals bore you to tears, Jim."

"Like you're one to talk!"

They engage in a _you're-worse-than-I-am_ stare-down, which is forcibly interrupted some minutes later by an unforgiving knock on Kirk's office door. Jim says less cordially than usual (mainly because he lost the staring contest, McCoy thinks smugly), "Come in."

Sulu strides in and dumps a vase of flowers on Jim's desk. Then he strides out, never once looking anyone in the eyes.

Jim's loser's scowl lightens considerably. "Bones, flowers? Really?" He makes a delighted, ridiculously adorable sound. "What's the occasion? Normally your definition of romance is a porterhouse and a bottle of whiskey," Kirk jokes as he reaches for the white card.

Leonard attentively sits forward in his chair. "Don't knock steak and booze. 'N I didn't send you flowers." Considering Jim's expression, maybe he should be sending his lover flowers every once and a while.

Jim reads the card quickly then hands it across the desk to McCoy with a puzzled expression. The typed print says: **To Jim and Leonard.**

McCoy frowns. "That's it?" He lifts an eyebrow at Jim. "Winona, maybe?"

Jim shrugs but his eyes are fixed on the card in Leonard's hand. "Bones, could—"

"CAPTAIN!"

The bellow breaks into the relaxed, soft atmosphere of the precinct like a war cry. Kirk is out of his office in an instant, demanding to the cop who yelled, "Report!"

The cop, one of last month's recruits, fixes wide eyes on Jim and Leonard. "Sir, there's been a break-in at the Cartwright Museum!"

McCoy isn't aware he is holding his breath. Next to him, Jim's entire body tenses.

The rookie is still babbling on: "...fifteenth-century Japanese painting...worth millions...left a message oddly enough, Sir, for you and Mr. McCoy."

Jim's hand seeks out McCoy's. Leonard returns the grip with a painful squeeze of Jim's fingers.

It couldn't be.

The rookie quotes: " _Who that has loved knows not the tender tale Which flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell?_ "**

But it is.

"Hot damn!" is Leonard's whoop, scaring several nearby donut-chewers with its ferocity. "We got a fuckin' case!"

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - excerpt from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen  
> ** - quote from Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, first Baron, Corn Flowers-The First Violets (bk. I, st. 1)
> 
> Thank you to everyone for the support and encouragement you showed during _The Case of the Mondays_ ' development. I never imagined one comment!fic would require eight additional parts to make it complete. This ending, of course, is the beginning of a new adventure for PI!Bones and cop!Jim. As for Spock... well, he shall always remain, I fear, the most elusive art thief of all. Good luck to Jim and Leonard. And thank you for reading.


	21. Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a stranger outside Leonard's window.

Leonard has never seen the man before in his life. "Look, kid," and is that amusing? Why does the fellow smile at him like that? "I don't know why you're out here serenading the crows but some of us regular people want to sleep. _So shut it._ " Thinking the problem is taken care of, he pulls his head back inside his apartment to close and latch his window, lastly drawing the blinds to hide the offending sight of some punk strumming a guitar at the foot of his apartment building and wailing like an alley cat.

He grabs a beer from his small refrigerator and sinks into his living room's sole piece of furniture—a cushy but threadbare armchair—and turns on the television, whose antennae droops like sad, tin-foiled rabbit ears. The news channel is full of crap, Leonard considers himself too old to watch a dancing banana-yellow sea sponge, and the couple having an affair on Lifetime reminds him too much of his ex-wife.

_Plink._

Leonard takes a long swallow of beer and hates his monotonous life.

_Plink. Plink._

Eventually he becomes aware of the repetitious noise and lowers the tv's volume to listen.

_Plink._

Some asshole is tossing rocks at his window! Leonard abandons a primetime cop drama to peer between two blinds. Another rock—no, not a rock, but something colorful and small like a bead—pings the window near his left eyeball. He jumps back in surprise.

Irritated now (who is the fool trying to give Leonard a heart attack on his night off?), he pulls up the blinds for a full view down the side of the building.

Below, guitar guy waves frantically at him.

Leonard really has nothing better to do. He opens the window again and shouts, "WHAT?"

Mr. Annoying asks, grinning broadly, "Can I come up?"

Long ago, Leonard accepted that city-living has its quirks; this isn't the down-home of Georgia where the man asking you to invite him in is also the man you hit with a plastic frying pan in kindergarten. There are bonafide crazies here, and Leonard knew it was only a matter of time before he met one.

Which in no way means Leonard has to be hospitable or polite to him.

"Fuck off or I'll call the cops," he snaps.

The guy wheedles like a three year old. "Please, _please_ , Bones! It's cold outside!" The lanky fellow shivers for show, hugging his guitar and smiling ridiculously wide. Leonard thinks he can see the color of his eyes (a glowing blue, what the hell?), which is really unnerving since Leonard's apartment is on the fifth floor and he hasn't had his myopia fixed yet.

Bones?

He shuts the window without another word and hopes the lunatic goes away. After double-checking the lock on his apartment door, Leonard turns up the volume on his television again and pretends he isn't worried he is going to be ax-murdered in his sleep. Why, oh why, didn't he bring his father's gun when he moved?

A few minutes pass with no other interruption. Leonard's blood pressure eases back to normal levels, and he returns to nursing his lukewarm beer.

"Idiot," he murmurs at the TV because the assailant is obviously the mother and the cops have yet to figure it out. He is contemplating discarding his half-empty beer for something colder when the sudden knock on the window scares the shit out of him. Leonard forgot to draw the blinds and a face appears at the bottom corner of a pane, blue eyes staring into Leonard's apartment—and at Leonard.

Guitar guy is now literally _outside his window_ , separated from Leonard only by glass. "Bones? Bones, can I come in?" When the man knocks imploringly on the window again, he almost unbalances from his perch and Leonard hears the rattle of metal.

Oh fuckity-fuck. _The fire escape._ How could Leonard have forgotten about the fire escape?

Then he realizes what else he forgot to do and dives for the window at the same time psycho-man-hanging-from-his-fire-escape discovers the window is not locked. Leonard doesn't think, simply acts, and smashes his fist on top of the guy's fingers grappling at the bottom of the window sill for a hold. Then he slams the window shut, locks it, and backs away, shaking from a powerful combination of adrenaline and fear.

Unfortunately, the crazy man doesn't slip and fall, or even—if Leonard is to be truthful—look scared that he might hurt himself. His mouth curves at the corners like they are sharing a secret. "It's me Jim," he says to Leonard, loudly so his words echo through the glass. "Are you ready?"

"Ready?" Leonard squeaks. Then he thinks _Phone! 911! NOW!_

"To wake up," explains Jim.

Leonard cannot contemplate a response to that. He scrambles after his cordless phone, ignoring the urgent knocking on the window and the stupid nickname "Bones!"

He tells the 911 operator, "Somebody's trying to break into my apartment."

"Doctor McCoy," the operator replies in a lovely woman's voice (familiar maybe?), "where are you?"

"I'm at—wait, how do you know I'm a doctor?"

"Leonard, we miss you," she says like he hasn't said a word to her.

The man at the window calls, "Bones? C'mon, Bones, just let me in."

The phone disconnects to a dial tone, an awful empty sound, and without warning terrible pain burns through Leonard's head. He drops the phone. More urgent now is the stranger— _no, it's Jim,_ Leonard remembers out of the blue—calling him, asking him to _please, please_ let him in. Saying things like _I don't want to be without you_ and _you aren't waking up._

Leonard's head hurts so badly he thinks he is dying. He can't figure out where he is. If only... The floor disappears into nothingness; the window, the man, clouds over. Leonard whimpers. Then the pain is gone.

[~~~]

The nurse lays a comforting hand on the visitor's arm.

The visitor whispers, "Another seizure?"

"We had to sedate him. I'm sorry."

He nods and sinks into the chair beside the bed. His question is a hollow one: "How much longer?"

Chapel tries to be gentle with her answer, particularly because it is an answer no one wants to hear. "We don't know, Sir. His brain activity hasn't changed since—since the coma."

The man responds by reaching for Leonard's hand, which is cold and slack between his own, and begs, "Bones."

[~~~]

He wakes in his armchair, vaguely recalling a phantom headache, and grimaces as he rolls his stiff neck. His day off, thank God. Residency work might just kill him.

Leonard reaches for the television remote, already bored and somewhat lonely in his new apartment— _but at least it's safe, at least it's a home,_ he assures himself—when the music begins. Then singing follows, a caterwail, horrifying in its uneven pitch.

What the hell?

Leonard walks to the window and pushes aside the blinds to investigate the disturbance. _Oh._ There's some fool, some strange idiot outside with a guitar, serenading the crows. Nonplussed, Leonard jimmies open the window to yell at him to stop.

_-Fini_


	22. Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Office gossip flies and Janice finally realizes she is part of Kirk Enterprises, temp job or not.

Janice's temp job at Kirk Enterprises is surprisingly better than any job she has suffered through in the past. At first she thought she might die of boredom from answering phone calls all day and waiting for someone to find her something to do in the meantime. Then her coworkers seemed to realize she is a competent human being. Now Janice attends some of Jim's— _Mr. Kirk_ 's meetings (is it wrong that she likes to think of him as her friend and not her boss?) to take her own notes rather than spending half a day deciphering Ji— _MR. KIRK_ 's "chicken scratch", as Leonard McCoy so boldly calls it. They let her have full reign as the office administrative assistant: organizing schedules and company lunches, ordering supplies (why are there one hundred boxes of paper clips but never any scotch tape?), running off sales people, and handling the general affairs of non-salaried employees. In truth, while her work is not glamorous, it has purpose—and she is beginning to understand her job is to make certain everybody else is able to do their jobs without the interruption of the corporation's smaller, day-to-day needs.

Also, Janice equates herself to the personal keeper of one James T. Kirk.

Her boss is the most disorganized man she has ever met. She didn't find this out until she began to acquaint herself with his filing system (sadly there is none) and to keep track of his coming-and-goings for client purposes (everyone on Earth seems to want to know where Kirk is or when he's due back in the office). It seems her boss hates to write anything down, and Janice is of the opinion his memory is too selective for that kind of nonsense. (How can he quote last month's stock prices but fail to remember that out-going mail is due on her desk by 10 am?) Worse than that, Mr. Kirk's generally chaotic habits involve post-it notes. He will scribble the last four digits of a client's phone number on a yellow post-it then promptly lose said post-it only to have Janice later discover it's somehow gotten stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Some days she can barely see his desktop for the random scattering of those stupid sticky notes. A lot of them are short messages to 'Bones', aka McCoy, his partner-in-crime (and in bed); she studiously ignores those love notes in public but sighs over them when no one is looking. She's even seen her boss, busy talking on the phone to somebody, probably Mr. Spock, write GOOD MORNING on a pink post-it and then wave it at her face when she brings him a fresh cup of coffee.

In addition, the man ignores the simplest but most important rule of the business world: always look like a professional. He will walk into a board meeting with his undershirt exposed because he forgets he removed his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt; the building's heater likes to jam and tries to cook them in their cubicles so this scenario happens a lot. Sometimes he isn't even _wearing_ an undershirt. Janice has had minor heart palpitations over such a spectacle, by which she means his spectacular chest (God but the man is gorgeous and she's single and he really, really isn't which is a never-ending travesty); but she doubts the older gentlemen with whom Kirk regularly conducts business have the same feelings over his too-casual, just-woke-up-from-my-afternoon-nap-at-my-desk look.

To this extent, Janice keeps a man's tie (it's dark blue and pin-striped) in her desk drawer and feels it necessary to stall Kirk on his way to a business luncheon or a committee meeting to fix him into a proper state of appearance. The man usually takes her fussing with a silly salute, grinning good-naturedly as she presents his discarded jacket or tells him not to expose his socks to the light of day because they don't match or have ducklings on them.

He often says, "What would I do without you, Janice?"

"Embarrass yourself," she promptly answers while she pretends to be immune to his charms, and then later proceeds to hum happily at her desk for an hour or so afterwards.

Today is one of the days where she catches him sidling past her desk in a shirt practically unbuttoned to his navel, hands in his trouser pockets like he hasn't a care in the world.

"Where are you going, Mr. Kirk?" Janice blurts out, fitting the phone receiver back into its cradle without making the phone call she intended to make.

"Oh, out," he says over his shoulder.

Janice hastily abandons her swivel chair to scurry after him. "Mr. Kirk, wait, what about your 11:30 with Mr. Mudd?" She doesn't like Harry Mudd—the man over-tans his skin and acts like he is God's gift to women everywhere, only to canoodle them if they fall for him, or so she's heard—but he is the primary vendor for their marketing and Kirk is obligated to sit down with the man once or twice a year.

"Mudd can reschedule" is the unperturbed reply.

They reach the double doors at the end of the hallway. Janice says anxiously, "Yes, sir. When will you be back?"

He pauses to look at her, absently twisting a ring on his finger. "A few hours."

"By three?" she guesses, because it sounds like he is preoccupied with something important, something personal, and wait— _where_ did that ring come from? She catches herself staring and steps back to smile politely, if somewhat apologetically, at him.

He returns the smile. "I won't abandon ship, Janice. See you this afternoon. And if Mudd complains, hang up on him."

Wouldn't that be lovely if she could! Janice returns to her desk, already sifting through Jim's work calendar which now resides in her brain to find a relatively late date next month to offer Mudd in light of his cancelled appointment. Then she sets about breaking the news to the poor man.

~~~

"Chris," Janice murmurs in the office lounge as she refills her thermos with hot water to make tea, "have you noticed anything different about... _him?_ "

"Which him?" Christine Chapel wants to know as she peels off the foil top on a yogurt cup. "McCoy?"

"Mr. Kirk."

"Ooh, did you see his shirt today? Down to the second-to-last button." She licks her yogurt spoon and adds "I like a man with light chest hair" at the same time the lounge's door swings open to admit businessman Leonard McCoy.

"What now?" drawls McCoy.

Christine repeats her statement and follows it up with a more exuberant, "Don't you agree?"

McCoy's face flushes as red as Janice's. They generally avoid looking at one another while Leonard makes a new pot of coffee. When he leaves, too quickly in Janice's opinion, she turns to Christine to say, "Aren't you worried he might consider that sexual harassment?"

Chapel waves away Janice's inquiry. "Are you kidding? I've worked with Leonard for eight years now. He knows my brand of humor—and I know his." She chuckles to herself. "In fact, I'm the one who recognized his bitching at Kirk as a ruse to hide his real feelings and so I told the man to get off his lazy butt and ask Jim out. He ranted for a day, but he did it. So, he kind of owes me now."

"When was that?" Janice asks curiously.

"Hmm, five, no four and a half years ago?"

She exclaims, "They've been together for almost five years! Wow, I... I thought it was a recent thing."

Christine perches on the edge of the only table in the lounge. "No, not really, though they still act like horny teenagers. I thought Mr. Spock was going to have a heart attack when he walked in on them making out over Jim's desk." She cackles. "Uhura had EMT on the line."

She had been sick that day which is why nobody delayed Mr. Spock en route to Kirk's office or warned Jim to quit necking with his boyfriend.

Janice's thoughts circle back to her boss's departure. "He was wearing a ring."

Christine's spoon clatters to the floor. " _What?_ " Yogurt forgotten, the woman demands details.

"I don't know, it was... just a ring? Plain?"

"A gold band?" Christine asks, hands fluttering with excitement.

Janice clutches her thermos. "Do you think...?" Her eyes widen.

"Wait here!" her colleague tells her. Then Christine hurries out of the lounge. When she returns less than a minute later Nyota Uhura is with her, looking trim and exquisite in her designer skirt and high heels.

Janice is pinned by Uhura's lovely dark eyes. "What did you see, Janice?" the woman asks.

Unnerved by the rapt attention of her female coworkers, Janice tries to backtrack. "It was just a ring, Nyota. I'm sure it doesn't... mean... anything. Oh and, Leonard isn't wearing one!" she says as an afterthought and is surprised the mutual disappointment in the air.

Christine and Nyota share a long look. Janice has the sneaking suspicion whatever plan they are silently agreeing upon, it means trouble for Janice. And Janice actually likes her job, not mention being able to pay her apartment rent.

"I'd better go back to my desk," she announces and hurriedly slips between the two women to the door.

They don't stop her or ask any other questions. Yet little does Janice realize even this early on her instinct is, of course, absolutely right.

~~~

"Leonard!" crows a woman from Accounting (Helen, who Janice doesn't know very well) as McCoy almost swerves into Janice's desk in his haste down the hall.

Janice cannot help but type more slowly so she can listen to the conversation.

"Can it wait?" McCoy says without preamble. "I ate at a Chinese restaurant across from that Asian market—"

"Oh no!" Janice interrupts, peeking around the corner of her cubicle. "Don't eat at that place, Leonard! It will make you sick!"

When Helen and Leonard look at her, she sheepishly rearranges the small potted plant on her desk to appear busy and returns to her slow typing.

The grim tone of Leonard's voice says he knows all too well about the sick part. "Sorry, excuse me..."

"Oh, Len," Helen says, following his rapid strides along the hallway, "congratulations!"

"Not now, Helen," mutters Leonard, who then plunges into the men's restroom.

Helen comes back to the receptionist's desk. "It's about time they made it official," she says wisely to Janice.

"Um, I know?" Janice agrees, having no clue what the CPA is talking about.

~~~

"Come in, Jan," Jim Kirk calls as he bends over to tie the laces of one of his expensive leather shoes.

 _Oh, don't mind me,_ she doesn't say, eyeing his posterior, _I am enjoying the view._ Charcoal-colored slacks look so good on his—

Her boss straightens and ruffles his hair. "What can I do for you, Ms. Rand?"

Several answers flash through her mind. All of them will get her fired. Instead she waves a stack of papers in a familiar red folder at him.

Kirk's sigh is both despondent and amused. "Do I have to?"

Janice lets the folder drop on his desk with a loud _thump_. "Please initial your approval on the forms I marked, sir," she recites sweetly. "I'm leaving at five," she reminds him, which means _don't expect me to stay late because you don't like paperwork_.

He starts twisting the ring on his finger, a habit Janice believes he has developed since he began to wear it a week ago. "I can't stay too late myself," he tells her. "I made plans for Bones and—I made dinner reservations," he amends.

What kind of plans? Janice wonders, surprised at how he shifts from one foot to the next, a strange uncertain gesture. Not knowing what to say, she turns around to leave, only to stumble to the side as Leonard barges through the door with the demand, "Jim, what's going on?"

The thin line of McCoy's mouth says he isn't happy.

Kirk stiffens.

"I, uh," she sidles for the door, "I think my phone's ringing..."

"Did you tell people we're getting married?"

There is a stunned intake of breath from Jim. As if belatedly realizing what he is doing, Jim's fingers fall away from the ring on his hand.

Leonard makes a wild gesture. "First I got cornered in the bathroom while taking a piss 'cause Mitchell wanted to know if we're having separate bachelor parties. I couldn't make sense of what he was sayin' and THEN M'Benga, MY CLIENT, called me up to ask where to mail his wedding gift to us!"

Seeing the sudden pallor of her boss's face, Janice makes a swift retreat, closing the door firmly on her way out.

Uhura exits her office across the room a moment after McCoy's muted shout rattles the window blinds in Jim's office. "What's going on?" the VP calls to Janice. Chapel, perhaps catching the scent of trouble, hurries from between two cubicles, echoing the same question.

"I think," Janice says in a hushed voice, "we misunderstood the significance of Mr. Kirk's ring."

"Of course not," Nyota disagrees.

"Definitely we did not," Christine says.

"Then Leonard isn't the one Jim's marrying!" Janice argues back.

A short silence ensues.

"Oh." Christine looks to Nyota who crosses her slender arms with a frown. "...Then how did Leonard find out?"

"I heard Helen congratulating him, so she definitely knows about it," Janice offers. "But I didn't tell anyone."

"I may have mentioned it to Scotty," Nyota admits. "And I called Spock to make a point about relationships."

Chapel looks upset. "I asked Marlena for catering ideas because she's been Maid of Honor three times that I know of. I didn't think Jim or Leonard would want to plan the details and thought I could help..." She glances at the suddenly quiet CEO's office. "Oh my god. I feel awful! Was he really angry?"

"I think he was angry because he was surprised," Janice hedges. Surely McCoy couldn't have been upset at the idea of marrying Jim? Janice simply cannot fathom it.

Christine squares her shoulders. "I'm going in to explain. If they break up because of a stupid rumor—"

The door to Kirk's office opens and Jim walks out with a flustered-looking McCoy on his heels begging "Jim, now wait a minute..."

"I have an announcement!" the CEO bellows.

People scramble from their hidey-holes to join Janice, Nyota, and Christine, clustering together and whispering.

"Janice," Jim asks, "can you put me on the intercom?"

"Jim!" hisses McCoy, and his face is unusually red.

That's when Janice notices Leonard's left hand, now sporting Kirk's ring. The squeak she makes is not feigned or shy. She prods at Christine with the excited words, "Look, he's wearing it!"

Uhura declares with heartfelt relief and annoyance, "Jim, you dog, you scared us!"

"Scared who?" Jim wants to know.

Janice positions herself unobtrusively behind Nyota.

But Kirk doesn't seem interested in anything except dragging McCoy to his side and slinging an arm around the man's waist. "As you all know," he begins, "I have pursued Bones for years—"

Leonard rolls his eyes but he doesn't look nearly as peeved as he did when he stormed into Jim's office.

"—and since he would never let me make our relationship officially known—"

"That's true," Christine whispers to Janice. "Leonard is afraid it'll affect the business—or he used to be." She winks.

"—I want to be the first to tell you this." Jim grins. "I love this ornery old man."

" _Old?_ " Leonard snarls. "I'm only four years your senior!"

"I intend to marry him, though I now realize some of you have figured that out on your own."

Janice claps not because everyone else is clapping but because she is genuinely happy to hear the news. Suddenly it doesn't matter that her life is dismally empty; before her are two people who refuse to accept those terms for themselves. It gives her hope.

Jim accepts the congratulations with the ease of a true leader. Then he points out, somewhat jokingly, "I know we are aware of company policy and why we should always be careful of rumors, but this time I can gladly say 'thank you'. You saved me from an embarrassing proposal at a fancy restaurant tonight. I even ordered a cake to hide the ring!"

Janice giggles; some people groan.

"Jim," Leonard is saying, "you can't put a ring in a cake. What if I'd choked on it?"

Jim mockingly bats his eyelashes at his fiancee. "Don't worry, Bones, I would have given you the Heimlich Maneuver."

Someone suggests celebratory drinks. Another person wants to know if the rest of the afternoon is a holiday.

Uhura says authoritatively, "Enough dawdling, people—Kirk Enterprises isn't going to run itself! Congratulate the big man on finding his brain and we can discuss the wedding itinerary during lunch hour!"

"Wedding itin—" Jim chokes. "Uhura, no. Bones and I can hire a planner!"

Nyota flips her long ponytail. "I think not, Jim," she says. "I have contacts. Spock will secure us the Hilton, and I hear Marlena has been a Maid of Honor three times! She can get us started in the right direction."

"It's a wedding, not a business project," Leonard points out.

Janice turns to Nyota. "I would love to help. I read in a paper about a local man who makes swan ice sculptures."

Christine adds, "What color should our dresses be?"

Marlena waves her nail clippers in the air from her cubicle to catch their attention. "There's this little bistro who makes the most _fabulous_ cream puffs."

"Somebody is going to have to take them for a tuxedo fitting," Nyota says a little loudly.

"I have the next two Saturdays free!" comes a cheerful response from the back of the office.

Janice hears the whimper "Bones, do something."

"Like what, kid? This is why I've been warning you about men being outnumbered in the workplace. You just _had_ to give them a reason..."

The phone rings, obnoxiously shrill. Janice hurries to her desk and answers it: "Kirk Enterprises. This is Janice speaking. How may I direct your call? Oh hello, Mr. Mudd! We may have to reschedule your appointment again... Our CEO's getting married!"

_-Fini_


	23. Tied to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew a tie could be so useful?

The tie is atrocious—day-glo orange, like a pair of surfer's shorts that should have never left its coastal habitat. Women look askance at it instead of admiring the man's face as they otherwise might do. To say they give wide berth to the tie and the man would be an understatement. The good-looking fellow—for he _is_ strikingly handsome, if one can get past the fashion faux-pas about his neck to see the lovely shade of his eyes and the upward, almost humble sweep of his mouth—winks at one female and moves in her direction as though he might try to talk to her, and she quickly averts her eyes, shopping bags flying in circle as she spins about in the opposite direction and hurries into a wandering crowd of tourists.

He seems satisfied instead of surprised.

Striding to a nearby stand of—"Sweet Jesus save us all!" an upscale fashionista had cried only minutes before upon sighting it—equally atrocious ties of various nauseating bright colors and patterns, he strips the orange one from his neck and hands it to the stand's salesman with the firm declaration "I'll take it." The buyer pays in cash, tucks a paper bag with the newly purchased tie under his arm, and walks back to his hotel, whistling a jolly tune.

~~~

"Oh fuck," Jim says as he digs in his duffel bag. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

Leonard pokes his head out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from the side of his mouth. "What's wrong, darlin'?"

Jim is too pissed to decipher the other man's playful tone. "I packed a tie! Where the fuck is my tie?"

McCoy pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth to warn, "If you say 'fuck' around my daughter next week, I will kill you, Jim."

"Fuck," Jim repeats, kicking at his duffel bag like it's responsible by eating his lost tie. He half-turns toward the bathroom. "Booones..."

"Check the top drawer of the dresser. I might have something." Jim's lover moves back into the bathroom to finish brushing his toothbrush. Leonard is leaning over the sink rinsing out his mouth when he hears " _You've got to be fucking kidding me!_ " He smiles.

~~~

Leonard keeps his hand at the small of his companion's back as they enter the hotel restaurant and bar. "Stop fidgeting," he advises.

Jim tugs uncomfortably for the third time at the collar of his dress shirt since the elevator deposited them in the lobby, and his eyes dart to a pair of women who glance in his direction then hastily turn their backs to him and lean toward each other to whisper. "How could this be the only other tie you have, Bones? _Fuck_ , I look _ridiculous._ "

"Deal with it," McCoy says, amusement heavy in his voice.

They seat themselves at a table and Leonard gives their drink order to the waitress while Jim hunches in his seat in an effort to look inconspicuous. As dinner progresses, Leonard's good mood increases proportionally to Jim's paranoid fidgeting. By the time Leonard is done with his medium-rare steak and savoring a glass of brandy, he seems completely relaxed.

"This is the first uninterrupted meal we've had in a while," he remarks, stroking his thumb along the rim of his glass.

Jim, apparently, is skimming the room for lurking photographers who want to immortalize his shame. "Are we done then?" The words come from between gritted teeth.

Leonard lifts a surprised eyebrow. "No dessert?"

Jim doesn't answer, as he is now too busy gripping a sharp steak knife in one hand and contemplating the fabric of his tie with the other.

"Hey," Leonard intercedes before Jim can act, "don't ruin my tie!"

The steak knife is dropped back to the table with a clatter. Jim turns pleading blue eyes to Leonard. "Bones, please, can't I take it off?"

"We had a bet. I won. Fancy dress tonight."

"In a fuckin' orange tie!" Jim's loud protest turns a few heads from the bar.

"Not my fault you lost your own tie, sweetheart."

"I didn't _lose_ it! I _know_ I packed a—" Jim's mouth snaps shut as he considers McCoy with narrow eyes.

Leonard sets his glass down with care, thinking he doesn't like the look on Jim's face.

"Is this a prank?" Jim asks him suspiciously.

"Nope."

Was his answer too casual? Leonard guesses so, since Jim's eyes become a stormier sea-blue.

Jim very slowly undoes the knot of the tie and pulls it away from his neck. He holds the offensive article up for McCoy to see. "Is this a prank, Bones?" the man repeats, sounding much too calm.

Leonard thinks about his response for a moment then sighs. "Jim..."

"Because if this is some stupid-ass stunt to embarrass me, McCoy—" Jim keeps talking as though it doesn't matter what Leonard has to say.

Leonard jerks the tie out of Jim's grasp. " _This_ ," he growls, suddenly irritated and his good mood evaporating—which irritates him even more, "is the only reason we are havin' a nice dinner!"

Jim opens and closes his mouth, and his expression settles between a mix of angry and confused. "What?"

Leonard flings the tie on top of their table's flower centerpiece and glowers at its clash of color with a red rose. "Since we left our hotel room, the couple in the elevator _didn't_ check you out, the hostess _didn't_ bat her damned eyelashes at you, the waitress _didn't_ flirt with you before I could even open the menu and, goddamn it, you haven't had a single proposition from every pair of tits in this bar! Now I know that might stick in your craw, Jim, but it suits me just fine. I'll take a quiet night with my lover and an ugly tie any day, considering the usual shit I have to put up with when we go out."

After a moment of silence, Jim says, "Oh."

Leonard's ire vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "Forget it. I'm gonna find the waitress and get the check." Jim catches his arm as he stands up.

"Bones."

"What?"

Jim lets him go and reaches for the tie instead. "Could you help me put this back on?" The look in his eyes is soft and serious, though his tone is light.

Leonard's heart melts a little when he realizes what Jim is saying, and he brushes his thumb across Jim's cheek. "Yeah?"

Jim nods.

He smiles. "Tell you what... let's pay the bill, forget about the romantic walk through the park, and just go back upstairs. No tie necessary."

Jim's lingering kiss is answer enough.

When the waitress comes over to collect dishes (and investigate the drama going on), she looks first at Leonard then at Jim and blinks slowly as though she is seeing Leonard's companion for the first time without his blinding transgression against all sexy tuxedo-wear.

"Hello, sir, is there anything else I can do for you this evening?" she says coyly.

Jim smiles at her and very casually drapes the loose orange tie in his hand over his shoulder. Her eyebrows draw together slightly as she sees it, and the waitress bites her bottom lip, visibly vacillating between continuing to flirt with Jim and recoiling from the crude color of the tie.

"There isn't a thing I need that I don't already have," Jim replies smoothly as he snakes an arm around Leonard's waist.

~~~

Leonard is silent until they are away from the restaurant and across the lobby to wait on an available elevator. "I guess I should give you back the tie you packed."

Jim cuts his eyes to McCoy. "I'll forgive you for stealing it, Bones, on one condition."

Leonard wants to know, "What do I have to do?"

"Not do," his lover says, "just tell. Tell me where you bought this thing—" He lazily flicks the end of the orange tie still hanging from his shoulder. "—so I can buy an extra."

Leonard frowns. "Why in God's name would you want _two_?"

"I don't." Jim grins. "But your idea is best-served if we both wear one."

"That's crazy!"

Jim leads the way into the elevator as its doors open. "Think about it," he says to Leonard, pressing the numbered button for their floor, "from my perspective. If no one but you can have me..." He deliberately trails off.

Leonard does and, eventually, admits to himself Jim has a point about fairness. But when he catches the smug look of Jim's face, he says instead of agreeing, "We could just throw it away."

Jim removes the tie from his shoulder then angles his body toward Leonard and slowly begins to un-button his dress shirt, still smiling. "Oh, it's too late for that, Bones."

The elevator dings to announce their arrival at the correct floor but Leonard's eyes are fixed on Jim's exposed collarbone. He reaches behind him and fumbles for the Close Door button, murmuring, "I'll take you to the shop tomorrow."

Jim's voice dips into a purr. "Excellent. Now, come here."

As Jim uses the tie like a rope to reel him in, Leonard finds that he has no particular complaint about purchasing another orange tie. Or maybe purple, he thinks, since orange is now Jim's color.

_-Fini_


	24. The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. A day at the park isn't what it seems.

There's a guy sitting on a park bench reading a newspaper. At first glance, Leonard takes in the stranger's nondescript outfit—short sleeve t-shirt already sweat-stained by the heat, jeans that've been washed too many times, unlaced boots and, above the newspaper, a peek at a black frame of glasses and a crop of close-cut hair. At second glance, Leonard notices a more interesting detail of the man with the newspaper. Why it prompts him to walk over to the occupant of the bench and remark on it instead of safely moving on, he has no idea. Of course, Leonard has never tried determining why he does what he does, and today isn't the day he starts curtailing his weird sense of curiosity.

He waits until his shadow slants over of the bench, warning of his presence, before saying "Mornin'."

The paper doesn't so much as quiver.

Leonard takes this as a sign he won't be labeled as another creep hanging out in the park (at least not a manner-less creep) and skirts around the man's extended legs to sit on the far end of the bench. He leans forward, gaze fixed across the expansive green of empty park landscaped by trees and city-maintained flowerbeds, and rolls his to-go cup of coffee between his hands.

After a moment, he tries again at sparking conversation. "Nice day." When this attempt garners no response, he cuts a sidelong glance at his bench-buddy. "So... if you're trying for inconspicuous, you might want to turn your paper right-side up."

He watches, amused, as the guy jerks his bowed head upward with surprise, blinks owl-wide eyes behind his overly large glasses, and after studying his outdated newspaper hastily flips it around. Leonard lifts his cup to hide his smile and to pretend to sip at his coffee. The newspaper goes up like a fort again, and Leonard is left to himself to ponder his unfriendly neighbor.

Minutes pass. He carefully pours his lukewarm coffee onto the dirt and tucks the empty cup between his hip and the bench railing so the wind doesn't pick up the litter. When a pigeon, plump and too dumb to be scared of the people walking their dogs along the sidewalk, waddles over to the bench and cocks his head at Leonard expectantly, Leonard unearths the crumbs of his morning danish he'd stowed in a napkin and tosses them toward the bird. Pigeons obviously must be of a hive-mind because within seconds the pigeon's extended family—aunts, uncles, third cousins, and all—are rapping at the ground with their squat beaks and demanding more crumbs from Leonard. Leonard runs out of their food supply in fairly short order, which the birds find an unappetizing event; this is why one of them ends up swallowing half of Silent Guy's bootlace.

Finally the newspaper is shoved aside as the man demands of Leonard, "What are you doing?"

Leonard replies mildly from his awkward position bent across the guy's leg, "What's it look like? This idiot's choking on your shoelace. Damned thing probably thinks it is a worm. Don't move, okay?"

Once Leonard rescues the pigeon from asphyxiation, it beats its wings ungratefully in panic and stabs at Leonard's hand until he drops it. "Shit!" Leonard inspects the wound, dismayed to see a spot of blood well up on his palm. He wipes away the blood with the tail of his shirt and turns to look at the man next to him, adding with an innocuous hint of a grin, "Mornin'."

"You already said that," Leonard is told.

"And you pretended you didn't hear it, so it didn't count." He sticks out his un-injured hand in introduction. "Leonard McCoy."

The guy stares at him. "You're some kind of park weirdo, aren't you?"

Normally he'd be offended but he slept an extra hour this morning and that makes all the difference in Leonard's personality. Instead he chuckles. "No weirder than yourself, kid. Who are you stalking anyway?" He looks around pointedly. "The single women jog about an hour earlier 'n this. All you got now are the soccer moms and grandmothers."

The color which rises in the man's face is a deep contrast to his otherwise pale skin. "Fuck you, man. I'm not a pervert!"

"Ah," Leonard says, leaning back against the bench and stretching out an arm along its top edge. "My mistake. Guess it's normal to read last week's Sun News upside down and desperately act like you aren't a cop on a drugs bust."

His neighbor's mouth drops open. "What?"

Leonard looks him over. "You're obviously PD, kid. So..." His eyes skim the park. "Who're you looking for?"

The guy narrows his gaze suddenly. "What business is it of yours?"

Leonard shrugs. "This is my bench. Since you're an uninvited guest on my bench, I suppose that makes it my business."

"Who'd you say you were?"

"Leonard McCoy," he repeats amiably. "Want to see my driver's license, officer?"

"Well, Leonard McCoy, I don't see your name branded on this bench."

"Why, that'd be defiling public property!" He cannot help but smirk, triumphant as his rejoinder finds its target with ease.

Now sporting a new tick in his jaw, the guy with the glasses—an apparent fake to a discerning man like Leonard, and sadly hipster too—roughly folds his newspaper into uneven thirds and tucks it under his arm. "I would tell you to move along," he says to Leonard, "but since I'm clearly in the wrong for picking _your_ bench—" His sarcasm is plentiful. "—and I don't have time to waste, I'll simply say don't follow me." With a thin, somewhat forced smile the cop stands up with a last slashing look at Leonard and walks away.

 _Don't follow me._ Ha! They're graduating half-wits from the police academy these days.

Leonard checks his watch and is content to sit languidly where he is. Five minutes later, a tall man in a coat and a hat comes striding down the sidewalk from the west, his pace unhurried. He stops to adjust the length of his dog's leash—a tiny Yorkie—and without hesitation takes a seat on Leonard's bench. Leonard reaches down to pet the Yorkie, who delightedly licks his fingers, happy to see him.

"Mornin'," Leonard murmurs without looking at the dog's owner.

"Good morning, Leonard." With a long-practiced ease, the man slips a small brown package from his coat pocket and places it between them. He remarks, "You may count it if you wish."

Leonard laughs softly. "Do I need to, Spock?"

"You do not."

"Well then." He straightens and glances at his companion. "You know how this works by now. My thanks for the business. Let me know when you need another run." He pockets the brown package, heavy with cash, and rises, toeing aside the dog. Without another word, Leonard cuts across the sidewalk to the open ground of the park, smiling good-naturedly at a young woman chasing after a toddler. He doesn't need to look back to know that the dog, his owner, and Leonard's used coffee cup are gone.

He wonders if the young cop will return after he slinks back to his boss without this morning's catch. The fellow may be stupid enough to try again of course (the young types usually are) and, well, Leonard is not opposed to playacting the resident bench-warmer—or the charmer—if need be. He certainly doesn't intend to get caught at the game or his rather illicit side-career.

...Holding his newspaper upside-down.

Leonard snorts.

_What an amateur!_

_-Fini_


	25. The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The suspicious bb!cop returns to the park.

The fake glasses distort his vision enough that Jim contemplates removing them. But he'd worked particularly hard on his disguise (well, as hard as somebody who riffled through their childhood shoebox of "spy" equipment) and it irks Jim that he isn't able to pull it off.

...Or perhaps it is better to say Jim is pissed that a park hobo immediately saw through his ploy and pegged him as a cop. Jim had had to bow out then before the dick started announcing to every man, woman, and child wandering down the sidewalk what Jim really was. How embarrassing to have been called out by a pigeon-rescuer!

Jim is, if anything, determined. He begged his superior officer to hold off on sending him back to the gritty routine of the streets; he had waxed poetical about his theories of ordinary-looking people doing unordinary trafficking in the most conspicuous of places, about how many lawbreakers the PD didn't even have on their radar because of the way the system worked (i.e. crime prevention is a low priority when it's easier to process the criminals already on the books) and how he could _catch_ one such miscreant without so much as batting an eye.

While the department thinks he is another rookie puppy eager to please, the truth is Jim is nothing of the sort. He's in the career of law enforcement for one simple reason: there are dirt-bags who think they are too smart to be caught. Jim's father was one of those men, which is why his mother took her young son on a one-way trip across the country; she had come to the conclusion George Kirk wasn't going to change his ways to suit her idea of a safe, wholesome family life. Years later, Jim finds himself agreeing with Winona's sentiments. It had taken him a while to move past his anger at her, to mature into a man who understood what she had been trying to teach him all along (morals and order), but he realizes now this path he is on couldn't have led him anywhere else.

He needs to prove to all of the slick criminals out there that someone is capable of seeing through their bullshit and forcing them to face their crimes. More than that, he needs to prove to himself he is that person. What has he been relentlessly driving himself towards these past years if he isn't?

Jim is poor enough that buying a newspaper every morning to commence his stakeout in the park isn't very feasible. The handful of quarters he spends on a paper is the day's lunch money; since he cannot have it both ways—a newspaper and a hot dog—he opts for the food based on survival instinct alone. Hence why he'd been pretending interest in a week-old article of how his favorite basketball team had their asses handed to them and walked off the court crying in shame (much like their fans).

A paper is a paper, right? Jim is supposed to project the image of someone literate and occupied by a normal pastime on a park bench. He is good at playing normal; but obviously there are people who see too much and think too hard and seek to make Jim's life more infinitely difficult than it needs to be.

Today he has a magazine in his possession—a hunting magazine from last month which ought to be less noticeable as a decoy. When he strides into the quiet park at the crack of a chilly dawn, stomach protesting a lack of breakfast, he uses the magazine to brush away a few stray leaves from an unoccupied bench and stretches out his legs when he sits down. In his peripheral vision, he spies Hobo's bench. It, too, is unoccupied.

After a while Jim grows bored of looking at the same picture of ducks while sneaking glances at his surroundings, so he opts to toss the magazine aside and stare openly at people moving through his area of the park. A woman in her thirties jogs past him for the third time and deliberately cuts an approving glance at his body as she does so. He keeps his face clear of any indication he might return her interest, and her coy expression drops away into annoyance. She picks up speed as she jogs away and doesn't return again.

His glasses slide down his nose. Jim pushes them back into place, almost ready to give up and move to another location (there doesn't seem to be any activity here), when a familiar face appears in the distance. The man— _Leonard McCoy_ if the guy is to be believed, and Jim often accepts nothing less than the name on a state-issued arrest warrant—picks his way across the lawn at a slow, ambling pace. He isn't dressed the same as last time (Jim guesses this makes a solid case against McCoy being a homeless man) and is clean-shaven and semi-well-groomed. McCoy carries a plain white coffee cup in his left hand, probably from a nearby gas station, and occasionally lifts its plastic lid to his mouth. When Jim's newest person of interest finally meanders in the correct direction to take a seat on the proclaimed bench, Jim cannot help the slight quirk of his mouth. This man likes habit apparently; he must be one of those people who find comfort in familiar objects and places. Jim is different: he acts as his own north star, as he thinks it should be, and the rest of the world is superfluous, except possibly for where he buys his next hot dog.

Jim picks up his hunting magazine again, this time turning to a picture of a dead deer laid out over the hood of a Dodge Ram, and bows his head. But he is watching McCoy now, as a test of sorts, and thinks of all the things he would say to the annoying bastard if he could. Eventually the target of his ire will subconsciously begin to itch under his intent stare—of simple, quiet, _cop_ Jim Kirk—and if Jim is honest with himself, he might be counting on the moment McCoy realizes they are only strides apart and, subsequently, decides to come over to this bench to pester him. (Let them see who wins this time!)

Jim sets an expiration date of five minutes on his expectations. After that, McCoy or no, he will move on to a spot closer to the public fountain. Satisfied, he turns his attention to a pair of grinning youths kicking a soda can between them and squints against the sunlight glaring off of his plastic lens. A fly lands on the exposed skin of his left biceps and he swats it away absently.

Barking isn't unexpected in a park where tame pets are allowed. But when a small brown dog comes pelting down the sidewalk as if its feet aren't even touching the ground Jim pays attention. It races headlong past Jim's bench, yipping excitedly, as it makes a beeline for another bench—and the man with the mop of brown hair and the coffee cup. Dogs have short attention spans, however, because as soon as it comes within two feet of McCoy it grins and makes a wide circle and veers off across a grassy hill. Jim would dismiss this event as the result of some owner who lost his dog (and thank God Jim isn't wearing his uniform otherwise said owner might expect Jim to catch the dog, like that one time a little girl had cried and cried until Mr. Jim the Policeman climbed a tree and rescued her cat) but McCoy stands up from his bench and cries out sharply the name "Bones!"

Bones, the little dog with its tongue lolling out of its mouth (what is it, a chihuahua or a rat with long hair? Jim wonders), ignores the demand of the human and chases after a squirrel which chitters angrily at the yapping animal once it is on a tree branch safely out of reach.

McCoy is stalking across the grass now toward the dog, his squashed coffee cup abandoned between two slates of the bench. Jim, who really ought to be moving along since five minutes have passed, rolls up his magazine and taps it against his thigh in indecision. He is saved from acting, however, by the approach of a tall figure in a coat and a hat—who is also trailing a dog-less leash. The stranger pauses by Leonard's bench before joining the man at the boundary between grass and sidewalk. They bend their heads together in quiet communication and to Jim's surprise neither person seems interested in the escaped pet. It isn't until the taller man reaches into his coat pocket and the motion is stalled by a quick gesture from McCoy that Jim becomes very interested in their interaction. McCoy mutters something to his (new?) acquaintance, who stiffens minutely. With an abrupt turn, the man whistles.

Bones, previously frolicking in a flowerbed of daffodils, bounds toward his owner and wags his tail so hard that his back end shimmies. The small dog is reattached to the leash without ceremony; owner and dog back away from their third companion. Jim notes the closed expression on Leonard McCoy's face, a shutter against loud thoughts which Jim has seen on too many perps under interrogation, and for the first time that morning, Jim's gut rumbles with instinct rather than hunger. Then, as if he senses Jim's train of thought, McCoy—not a park hobo but maybe something more devious?—turns to meet Jim's gaze. His smirk at Jim is mirthless yet somewhat wry. He returns to his bench to yank his coffee cup out of its wedged spot and heads in the direction opposite Jim, pace slightly hurried.

Jim, heart racing, tosses his magazine into the nearest trash bin as he abandons his plans in order to follow the man, whom Jim _knows_ —Jesus f-ing Christ, of all things the perp had even _introduced himself!_ —is what he has been looking for all along. But by the time Jim takes a corner to catch up to his target, Leonard McCoy has vanished along a trail of the park like a ghost.

_-Fini_


	26. The Art of Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Seeking a quiet life is never as easy as it seems when there is a case of mistaken identity.

"I have no greater wish than to be left alone." I say the words as flippantly as I can, nodding to the barista in thanks as I take my order from the coffee shop counter and lift it slightly to my face out of habit to smell the rich, sharp tang of brewed expresso. Beside me is a man, very young and self-confident of his ability to charm people. He shifts to position his hip against the counter and lean toward me; the light in his eyes tells me he not only finds my statement amusing but also a personal challenge of some sort.

Because I truly do wish to be left alone, just me and my afternoon coffee (which I sorely need by now), I ignore the subtle invitation in his body language and turn away. A quick glance around the shop reveals only two unoccupied tables. Hating the thought of sitting in the path of customer traffic by the door, I head to the small table in a far corner along the window. It isn't until I sit down that I realize I have been followed. "Did you not hear what I said?"

Mr. Good-Looking frowns at the lack of a second chair and, with a polite word and a hint of his smile to a couple close by, he acquires one. Once seated across from me, he leans back and casually addresses my sour exclamation. "Hear what?"

I consider dumping my coffee on his head, except that I can't get past what a waste of a perfectly good beverage that would be, not to mention a waste of the money I spent to buy it. I take another swallow from my coffee cup to fortify myself. This man, apparently, is going to make a nuisance of himself.

"What do you want?" I bite out. Fixing my gaze out of the window, I force myself not to watch him.

He seems utterly relaxed. "Can I ask you a question?"

"No," I say instantly.

"I'm going to ask anyway," the stranger replies mildly. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

I cannot help but return my attention to him. "Are you serious, or is that supposed to be a line?"

"I'm serious." His blue eyes consider my unkempt hair and the stubble on my face that has become more of a beard and less of a five o'clock shadow in the last couple of days. "I think I've seen you before."

"Probably have," I mutter. "I live here."

His eyebrows arch in curiosity. "At the coffee shop?"

Stupid questions deserve withering looks. I practice my withering look in the mirror every morning. Clearly, though, I need more practice because the man doesn't appear to be affected at all by it. I reply unhappily, "I live in town." The _dumbass_ at the end is unspoken but fairly obvious to anyone with half of a brain.

Strangely, he shows no sign of offense at my unpleasantness and crosses one leg over the other, resting his left ankle on his right knee. I can see for the first time that he isn't wearing socks with his shoes.

And rich white guy shoes they are.

I roll my eyes heavenward, wondering how I managed to attract the attention of a wealthy douchebag. "Is there a reason," I ask slowly, "why you decided to bother me today?"

"I thought I recognized you."

Dragging out my drawl, I counter, "Nothing throws you off, perhaps?"

"I like your accent."

"Of course you do," I say sarcastically. "It just makes me more recognizable, am I right?"

He ignores that and gestures at my coffee cup. "Can I buy you another?"

Either coffee is the new beer, or he's too socially inept to hang out in a bar like regular people. I take pity on him. "No thanks. Just the one is fine." This outing isn't as relaxing as I wanted it to be. I stand up. "Look, I'm gonna go. I hope you find the guy I remind you of."

"Wait!"

I don't wait. But nor does he let me leave so easily.

"I'm sorry!" he cries loudly.

Heads turn in the coffee shop. I look back to him, grimacing at the unwanted attention of the shop's other patrons, and tell the man quickly, "Don't worry about it." The door can't open fast enough to suit me.

Should've known he wouldn't listen.

"Hey, hey!" he repeats two or three times, hurrying along to catch up as my long strides eat up the sidewalk. "I didn't mean—"

I spin around, and he stops short. I say the first thing that comes to mind, which is an irritated command of "Stop following me!"

"But—"

"Just. Stop. Unless you want me to report you, kid."

He sucks in a sharp breath and demands, "Say that again!"

I eye him, decide he must be the town lunatic, and chuck my coffee cup into the nearest trash can. There's no point in reasoning with an insane person.

Mr. Stranger-and-I'm-Your-New-Stalker doesn't like that I walk away. I'll give him a chance to be really stupid and pull level with me. Then it will be time to show the idiot I'm not the kind of man who tolerates creepy shit—especially when it's my day off. People have no respect for anyone these days; otherwise I'd feel safe enough to leave my apartment door unlocked at night. This man validates why I should invest in an alarm system.

When he skirts around me, intending to step into my path, I charge ahead, grab his nicely pressed blue shirt, and swing us around to the brick wall of a building. He gives a slight _oomph_ as I shove him against it. I don't really intend to hit him, only scare the fool a little, but his hands go up in an automatic gesture of surrender when I snarl and raise my fist.

"Wait," he insists, "I just need to know..."

" _You_ don't need to know _anything_ ," I point out. Can't he see the obvious?

His chin lifts stubbornly. "Tell me your name."

"No."

"What's your name?"

"None of your goddamned business." I release his shirt and step back. "If you're smart, you'll go back the way you came."

"This is no joke!" he snaps suddenly. "Bones!"

I laugh. "Bones? What the hell is that?"

His look changes. Feeling a tingle of warning along my spine, I back up into the street; people are watching us again. He follows.

"I can hurt you," I warn him this time.

"Bones," the man repeats, "I know you. You can't tell me I don't because I _do_. I'd know you," he says urgently, "in a crowd of a thousand people."

Clearly town lunatic would be a kindness; this guy needs a home in a state facility. Why hadn't I noticed the intensity of the expression in his eyes before? Forget fighting, I think, it's time to run.

"No!" he screams in denial as I take off down the street. "BONES, COME BACK!"

There's a cop at the next street corner. I head in his direction because being chased by a strange man through the town square is clearly a sign of much-needed intervention.

"Officer!"

The cop freezes when he sees me coming. I sprint across a cobblestoned road, supposedly kept in good condition since the historic founding of this oceanside small town, and approach him, pointing at the man not far behind me.

"I don't know that guy," I tell the cop, "but he thinks knows me!"

I watch the cop's face when he spies the stranger in pursuit of me, and I don't like what I see.

"Mister..."

"McCoy," I supply.

"Mr. McCoy, let me handle this."

Why else would I want him to do? Stand on his head?

"Mr. Kirk!" the cop says brightly as the blue-eyed man slows down to a fast walk when he sees me side by side with an officer of the law.

"Bones..." The look on his face is troubled, like he doesn't understand why I ran from him.

"Hello, Mr. Kirk," the cop goes on to say kindly, deliberately blocking Kirk's view of me to draw his attention, "how are you today?"

"Hello," responds the man absently. He tries to step past the cop, who places a hand on his shoulder to halt him.

"Son, what brings you into town?"

"I was looking for Bones," he says.

The policeman nods as though he hears this answer every day of the week. "That's fine, Jim, but you can't bother this man."

"But that's Bones!"

I look at the officer. "He's crazy, isn't he?" And not on anti-psychotics, I add silently.

He pats Jim Kirk's shoulder and says pointedly, "There's nothing wrong with Mr. Kirk. He's simply made a mistake."

Jim shakes his head. "No, it's not a mistake. Bones," he says softly, almost pleadingly, "don't run from me anymore, please. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let the end happen like it did. I..."

Aw crap. I really have been targeted by a man who's one flew over the cuckoo's nest. "I have things to do," I announce, wanting to be far away. "Officer, if you could..."

The cop understands my meaning well enough and inclines his head slightly. "C'mon, Jim, I'll walk you home."

Jim looks like he might protest but after he searches my face for a moment, he relents to the authoritative grip on his arm. I try not to feel bad at the visible disappointment pressing down the line of his shoulders.

While taking a long and winding route back to my vehicle (not to mention constantly looking over my shoulder), I wonder who 'Bones' is. Does he exist in the real world, or only in a more imaginative version of the real world created by Jim Kirk? What is it about me that makes me a 'Bones' to Jim?

As strange as I may feel thinking about it, caution supersedes curiosity. I will need to be viligant when I'm in town from now on. Obviously I can't go back to the coffeehouse again, which is a damn shame considering its beverages are some of the best I've ever had. How did this happen? Why? I don't want to be involved in anything dramatic.

I had moved here, from my southern homeland, for a respite while I figured out what I wanted from my life. But somehow things doesn't seem like they are going to settle down on my whim. I picked the only town in America where I am likely to be accosted on a daily basis by a delusional person who thinks I am his long-lost best friend or his lover or his pretend playmate.

Life just likes to kick a man when he's down.

Consoled by my own cyncism, I unlock the driver door to my car and slide in behind the wheel. When I adjust my rearview mirror so I can check the parking lot for any obstacles, I spy a flash of a blue denim and white, unlaced sneakers, just for a split second, then it's gone. Yet as I navigate the roads to my condo by the sea I am unable to stop picturing a man, neatly dressed and seemingly young and well-to-do. ...An image that doesn't hint at all at what could lurk behind the polished, normal surface. Isn't it true that those who hide their insanity well are the most dangerous?

It's much later, over a glass of wine, when I admit to myself it's the way Kirk looked at me that keeps my thoughts drifting after him like a moth following a trail of light. _I am something he needs._

Oh, that's bad. Very, truly, terribly bad. Thoughts like that make for the beginning of a thriller novel. I have no desire to be someone's victim or emotional hang-up or debilitating fantasy.

At least I shouldn't have that desire, I conclude, and empty the rest of my wine glass into my mouth.

Me? A _Bones_?

Not happening. Why would a man such as I, Leonard the ordinary McCoy, want that kind of silly nickname? The truth is simple: I don't need to run into this Jim Kirk again, not if I value my safety and my peace of mind.

Of course, it's telling Jim Kirk not to run into me that I suspect will be the challenge.

~~~

"You're lucky I'm the one who intercepted him," a uniformed man tells a woman. He lowers his voice. "I don't know if this can go on much longer. With the number of disappearances last year, rumors are spreading."

"What am I supposed to do?" the woman asks. "Lock my son in a room for the rest of his life?"

He sighs. "Winona, with the appropriate care..."

"I'll be more vigilant," she interrupts coldly. "Good day, officer."

When the door is closed, she turns away from it but lingers until her face can produce a believable smile. She discovers her son in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich with the leftovers of the dinner their personal chef had made the night before.

"I found Bones," he says without looking up as he lays a slice of beef on a fresh cut of French bread.

She places her hands on his shoulders. "You shouldn't call attention to yourself in public. We talked about how to do things safely, secretly, remember?"

His movements stutter. "You... won't hurt him this time?"

"We shall see, my darling." She kisses his cheek. "But if he isn't the right Bones, you know his fate cannot be helped."

_-Fini_


	27. The Amateur Pigeon-Catcher, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the park bench series. Between Kirk and McCoy, who wins?

Maybe he had been hasty to label the rookie cop as a sad example of today's city police enforcement. Truth be told, the young man is as tenacious as a bulldog—a bulldog which seems to have latched onto McCoy's trousers and won't let go even if McCoy beats him with a stick. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Leonard hasn't been stupid enough to get anywhere near the cop since he realized he had become the idiot's suspect Numero Uno for drug-dealing.

Which isn't exactly an un-truth, either.

McCoy lingers outside the decorative iron-wrought gate separating the city block between street and park with a coffee cup in hand and chewing at his bottom lip. Every day for the past two weeks, he hasn't been able to make a run. At first he thought the cop would have enough sense to give up, so he laid low and sent out the word that business would be postponed for a few days. But it turns out that the fool has decided to set up camp in the park on a day-to-night basis that has Leonard pulling at his hair in frustration.

Doesn't the cop work?

Doesn't he realize the precinct won't pay him to shirk his other duties in order to catch somebody on a hunch?

Ah, Kirk, McCoy thinks. You are twice the fool I was when I used to believe in the system.

James T. Kirk—somehow the name fits the man, fake glasses, sharp blue eyes and all. When Leonard had come to the conclusion he was now the young man's new obsession, he had done a little obsessive detective work of his own. Walking into the downtown police station was not difficult; flirting with the receptionist at the front even less so. He told the pretty woman some man in blue had been kind enough to pay for his lunch at a hotdog stand (why does the idiot eat only hotdogs for lunch anyway? The medic in Leonard is disgusted by the thought) when he had forgotten his wallet and he'd like to pay the cop back. She asked for a name. He said he didn't know and described the guy.

"Oh, that's Jim for sure," she had said, smiling brightly. "He's a cutie pie!"

He pulled a pen from his pocket, clicked it, and placed an envelope on the counter. "Jim...?"

"James T. Kirk," she supplied readily, less interested in watching him write and more interested in the visible patch of his chest, which he had purposely left exposed by unbuttoning a third of his shirt buttons before approaching her.

Leonard slid the sealed envelope across the open window (it was empty inside, wouldn't that make Jim crazy with questions?) and upped the wattage of his charming grin and his slow Southern drawl. "Could you be a sweetheart and drop this on his desk, darling?"

She took it with a gleam in her eyes. "You wanna come to the back?"

He considered that for a moment. It was clearly an invitation to do more than play escort. They'd probably end up in a closet somewhere along the way. He was tempted but, alas, not the kind of man to take the risk. What would happen if Jim—Kirk, he means—happened to be inside the station? Leonard might as well walk himself straight to the jailblock. He'd be up shit creek.

"'Fraid I can't," he said with real disappointment. "I'm late for work."

"Oh..." Her expression fell and her fingers stopped toying with a lock of her hair. "Maybe later?" she asked hopefully.

"For you, darlin'," he drawled, "that's a distinct possibility." _Especially if I need to find out more about this Kirk stalker of mine._

Thus ended his short visit to the city precinct which, sadly, doesn't help him out on the streets at all. He has a name to put with a face, but no inkling of how to make Kirk stop circling his park bench like a hound on a hot scent.

Damn but Leonard is close to losing his entire setup! He'd had things down to an art and, more importantly, convinced his best customer that they were safe making the exchange in a public place. Spock is going to turn tail and cut their contact in another day or two. Leonard can feel it in his bones. And that makes him furious.

...Furious at that nosy son-of-a-bitch Jim Kirk!

Jaw working from his flash of temper, he decides in that instant what he is going to do. What better way to get rid of a cur than to knock some sense into it and send it running? He lifts his coffee cup to his mouth, then thinks better of the motion, and lowers it back to his side. With a steady march, McCoy steps past the park gate and takes his usual path. Kirk is going to get a hell of a surprise today, he thinks triumphantly.

~~~

Jim's leg has developed an annoying habit of bouncing incessantly. It could be from the copious amounts of energy drinks he consumes all day, but he has to stay awake or he's going to miss his chance. Working night shifts and forgoing sleep so he can scout the park in the daytime is making his body hate him fiercely. But then again, his body has hated him since he turned thirteen and decided black coffee was his best friend. Then the coffee, which stopped giving him the kick he needed, became shots of espresso topped with sweet whipped cream. Unfortunately he acclimated to that by the age of nineteen and now he's stuck with the monster-sized cans of liquid, legal speed. One day of these he might take to injecting a mix of adrenaline and caffeine straight into his veins.

The irony is not lost Jim, given what he is trying to accomplish by his crazy crusade.

He puts a firm hand on his knee to still his leg. It twitches unhappily but quiets for the time being.

Yesterday he had been close to calling it quits. The landlady to his apartment complex had screamed her head off at him after she heard the racket in his one-bedroom apartment—which was Jim kicking things around in a slightly wild anger because he had had two hours of sleep in six days and nothing to show for it. The dealer wasn't going to come back. Jim had, in his stupidity and his inexperience, scared the man off. _Of course_ criminals switch their home ground with regularity, especially when cops start sniffing around! he berated his image in a dirty bathroom mirror. So close, so close, and yet Jim had hamstrung himself from the very beginning.

Then he called in sick to the station, not that that was a lie since he thought he was going to pass out once his anger was fully spent, and slept for eight hours. In the morning, things seemed less dismal and, even better, he woke up to the feeling he would be seeing the guy at last. And, as Jim has learned through the years, his gut instinct is rarely wrong.

It's a risk but he took a seat on McCoy's park bench. Glasses in place and magazine at hand (but unopened), he waits.

It's ridiculous how hard his heart beats when he spies the familiar face trailing along the eastern sidewalk. It's more ridiculous how his hands shake when he finally peels back the first page on the magazine and looks down at it, pretending to read the table of contents but seeing nothing at all. As casually as he can manage, he stretches an arm along the top of the bench.

His mind fires off questions at a lightning speed: Is McCoy simply going to pass by? Should he have chosen the other bench? Did he remember his handcuffs? What if McCoy isn't who Jim thinks he is? What then?

Jim's muscles are the tautest they've ever been, like strings pulled so tightly they could snap at the slightest pressure, when Leonard McCoy does the unthinkable and, as though invited, sits down next to him. A long, wordless moment passes by the two occupants of the bench until McCoy breaks it with an easy, amiable "Mornin'."

Jim swallows and sets aside his magazine. He fixes his gaze on the rolling green grass where a small dog plays with two children. Dog. What had that mutt's name been?

Words just fall out of his mouth, unbidden. "Good morning, Leonard. How's Bones?"

He can feel eyes on him.

"Bones?" Leonard chuckles. "How would I even know? You're asking me about somebody else's dog?"

Suddenly the tension is gone. Jim adjusts the angle of his glasses and turns to look at McCoy, smiling a little. "You seemed pretty friendly with him—and his owner. I figured you were neighbors or something."

Leonard returns his smile and accepts the lie easily. "Or something." His eyes narrow as he takes in Jim's appearance. "You look like shit, kid."

"I've been better," he agrees mildly. _Where have you been?_

"Huh, I can imagine. Weather's nice today," Leonard says, switching subjects as he sips from his coffee cup and looks away. _Don't blame me_ is the rebuttal.

Jim's leg begins to bounce, up-down, up-down. He's barely aware of it. "Yeah, great weather." Jim asks, without thinking, "Want to feed the birds?"

Immediately he wishes he could retract his question. It sounds like... like an _invitation_ for a date, and a clumsy one at that. Mortified, Jim fumbles for his magazine again and mumbles, "Never mind." His glasses slip down his nose and he jerks them off, irritated, and stuffs them inside his jacket pocket.

Holy fuck. Where is his brain? His supposedly brilliant brain? Obviously it's not attached to his mouth.

 _Criminal, Jim_ , he reminds himself with a mental slap. The man's a criminal, probably selling crack to housewives and teenagers. Jesus, now he _knows_ you're incompetent!

There is the sound of crinkling paper then a gruff "Here." Jim is taken aback when McCoy shoves a quarter of a Danish under his nose.

What can he do but take it?

Leonard tosses the first crumbs to the ground, saying nothing to Jim. Within seconds, there is a huddle of grey-breasted pigeons pecking around their feet. They coo at Leonard for more food. Jim glances at the man focused on the birds before he throws some of his newly gifted Danish onto the sidewalk. More pigeons appear, eager to snap up the offerings.

"Thanks, I guess," he says.

"You're the one who asked." A short, flat response. What is McCoy thinking? Jim wonders.

He takes a breath and decides he has been playing around too long. "Want to tell me what it is you come to the park for, McCoy?" He uses his policeman's voice, even though he hasn't yet cultivated it to the point where it scares perps. Still, he thinks it has a nice unyielding quality to it.

Leonard simply laughs. "I'd ask what business it is of yours, kid, but something tells me you're looking at me through a cop's eyes. So I'll ask _you_ : why the interest?"

It's a game, Jim realizes. McCoy is testing him. And Jim has never declined a challenge in his life. He sheds the rest of the crumbs from his hands by rubbing them together, not caring that a pigeon climbs onto his foot to find the last bits of Danish, and leans back against the bench with his eyes fixed on McCoy.

"Just curious," he counters. "What're you selling?"

An eyebrow lifts. "Excuse me?"

"I saw you," he lies, "make the switch with that dog owner. What's the market value of your product these days?"

"Oh, Jim, Jim," the man murmurs, amused. "I hate to break it to you, but you didn't see anything. There wasn't anything to see. The dog got loose. I did my civic duty and tried to help catch it."

Oh, he's not getting away that easily! "Liar."

"Liar?" McCoy scoffs. "Now who's telling the big ones? Is this how you rookies get your training nowadays, by accusing perfectly innocent people of wrongdoing? Whoever came up with that plan is an idiot!" McCoy stands up, brushing off his pants, and picks up his coffee cup. "Remind me not to re-elect the city commissioner."

Jim springs away from the bench and blocks the man's path. The flick of pigeons part for them and then close ranks again, tripping over their own tiny feet to figure out where the food has gone. He almost snaps, suddenly realizing his chance could be walking away from him, "Where are you going?"

"That sounded like a demand," Leonard warns Jim softly. "I don't like demands. Now move, unless you plan to arrest me."

"The cup," Jim says, pointing at it. "Give me the cup."

"What?"

"It's how you're transporting the drugs. I'm not a fool, McCoy. Hand it over!" It either has to be the ever-present coffee cup or a slight-of-hand exchange. Jim isn't certain which but he is grasping at what he can to prevent the man from getting away.

Perhaps he's right, he decides when Leonard's hand tightens possessively on the white cup. "Get your own!" McCoy snarls at him.

Jim steps into his personal space. "Are you defying a direct order?"

"You got a warrant, officer?" counters the brown-haired man. "'Cause I'm thinking this is harassment."

Jim, against his common sense, reaches out and wraps his hand over McCoy's holding onto the article in question. "Are you afraid," he asks softly, "of what I will find?"

Those eyes (why hadn't Jim noticed they are vivid green when caught by sunlight?) don't budge from his, even as Leonard relents and says "Suit yourself" and lets Jim take his coffee cup. Snapping off its lid, Jim looks down into it—and stares at dark liquid. As a hint of the coffee's aroma overtakes the smell of grass and fresh air, Jim's heart sinks, settling to join the pigeons on the sidewalk.

When he looks up again, McCoy is walking away. Jim secures the lid in place again and jogs to catch up to him.

"I made a mistake," he says, suppressing a grimace while he tries to hand the cup back to McCoy.

Leonard won't take it. "Just throw it away."

"Look, I'm sorry..."

"Hey, enough!" the man snaps, turning on him. "I don't have time for play cop games with you. I'm late to work already." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "And a word of advice? Don't come back to my bench."

It's a hard punch. Jim, not certain if he deserves it or not, stiffens automatically. "I think I told you this before, Leonard McCoy, you can't own public property."

"And you can't accost people with crazy allegations. Guess that makes us even."

Jim shoves fingers through his short hair. "Fine. I'll back off."

Leonard watches him for a moment, a silent survey of Jim's sincerity. "Okay then," he says, temper soothed and somewhat appeased. "I'm going now."

But Jim can't let it go at that, not until he knows he hasn't completely botched his mission. "You'll come back?"

A snort of amusement from Leonard. "I might," the man tells Jim. "It depends on you."

Jim doesn't question that and stands alone in the middle of the park path, watching Leonard McCoy walk away, an easy, confident figure of a man.

Somehow, he lost this round. Jim's eyes drop to the coffee cup. He finds the nearest trash bin and disposes of it. Disappointed but not feeling defeated, Jim abandons his morning's watch at the park and goes home to mull over his plans.

~~~

Later, on a night patrol with a partner, someone will say over the radio Jim's name. It's almost a drawl, distorted by static, and for a moment Jim thinks it's Leonard's voice until the operator identifies himself as another rookie at the police station. Then it dawns on Jim why he shouldn't have mistaken that voice for McCoy's but did—and he scares his partner by whooping loudly and slamming his fist down onto the car's dashboard.

"Whoa, whoa, what's up with you, Kirk?"

Jim grins like a wolf and turns glinting eyes to the wide-eyed man next to him. "That fucking sneaky bastard. _He knew my name!_ "

"Uh, yeah?"

Jim laughs, the sluggish feeling which had been weighing down his limbs suddenly transforming into a fire of energy.

Leonard McCoy, Jim thinks, rocking forward in his seat in anticipation, goes back on his list of suspicious persons. Thank. Fucking. God! Now there's plausible reason to survey the park again and, more importantly, to return to a particular bench he can't seem to put from of his mind.

Mr. McCoy will be missing him by now, no doubt; and Jim would not disappoint a perp waiting to be caught... no, he would not!

_-Fini_


	28. Two Birds of a Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure crack (Karl wearing a white jacket = wings? IDEK!), and really no explanation for it.

At the third tug on his wings in less than a minute, Leonard spins around and snarls at the tiny toddler, "Stop it!"

The boy, clutching a fistful of white feathers, pokes out his bottom lip in protest. His mother drags her ear away from a cell phone to say to her son, "Don't bother the angel, hon."

The child declares "Mine!" and grasps the tip of Leonard's left wing, which is about as high up as he can reach due to his short stature.

Leonard jerks his wing out of the grubby hand and puts his back to the couple in front of him in a line of people.

Having the object of his interest taken away—that is, the worst thing Leonard could have done to a three year-old—the boy wails his dismay for the entire grocery store to hear. "My bird! MY BIRD!"

This is the moment at which Jim returns from his self-appointed errand, saying, "I found the beer!"

Leonard glares at the cardboard box encasing six beer cans because he would have to rip open the case in order to get at a drink. And he direly needs one after this fifteen-minute wait for a turn at the register while a woman holds up the line because she decides she doesn't want every other item after it's been rung-up, thereby causing the cashier to void the transaction and start over on her one-hundred and fifty-two item purchase. Drinking in public, however, particularly inside a store full of humans younger than the legal drinking age (i.e. Mr. Crying His Pants Off Because He Can't Pluck Leonard into Baldness), is a no-no in any rule book.

Jim, as if sensing his partner's urge to becoming stinking drunk in the middle of the day, neatly sets the case of beer on the floor. He places his hands on Leonard's shoulders and massages them. "Don't worry, I think we have everything on the list now."

"F—screw the list," Leonard snarls, only pausing to glance at the mother and child in close proximity. "I want to go home."

"But the party..."

"Screw the party too!" he rages as quietly as possible, though people still eye him with curiosity or a significant lack of amusement. Leaning in to Kirk, Leonard drops his voice to a whisper. "How many times do I have to tell you I don't like being in public?"

"Because of the wings?" Jim asks softly.

"No, Jim, 'cause of my squirrel eyes," he deadpans. Unfortunately, Jim's laughter does not alleviate Leonard's foul mood.

Wiping a tear from his eye, Jim says cheekily, "Red Bull gives you wings."

"What?"

"That was the company's motto before, you know, they ditched their caffeine addicts and cornered the market by engineering wing grafts."

"Oh God," Leonard groans, "you mean people seriously want a pair of wings?" He glares over his shoulder at the unnatural protrusions from his back.

Jim stares at him. "Where have you been for the last decade, Bones?"

"With my head stuck in a damn hole, I guess," the man mutters, shifting to place Jim between him and the thumb-sucking, sniffling toddler.

Jim has an affinity for history lectures, particularly of those Leonard doesn't care to hear. "It's like, fashionable or some shit... A neo-Christian leader - Joseph, or Job, or something - started the craze when he declared himself a real winged Angel of the Lord. Of course the tabloids caught wind of his plastic surgery, and that was the end of his career, but the beginning of a fad. I hear Vogue only accepts applications from winged models nowadays. " He looks fondly at Leonard's wings. "I used to think it would be awesome to fly."

"I can't fly, you moron. Whoever believes it's anatomically sufficient to give a two-hundred pound man a pair of hollow-boned wings and expect him to fly is a damned fool."

Jim shuffles closer, until they are touching chests, and purrs, "But we have fun with them anyway, don't we, Bones?"

As the mother lifts her son into her arms, who is now trying to pick his nose with one of his prized angel feathers, she smirks at the blushing Leonard.

"Jim," Leonard warns, "let's...let's not discuss that here."

Jim strokes the curve of a wing, and Leonard shivers. "'K, Bones," he agrees easily, then steps back, putting a couple of inches between them for decency's sake. "Oh, look! The line's moving!" He gleefully shoves the case of beer across the floor with his foot. Leonard takes the two steps closer to the register which is the result of someone giving up their spot in line out of frustration.

He grumbles under his breath, "We're going to be here forever."

Jim shoves his hands into his pockets and smiles placidly at the people jostling items in their arms ahead of them. "That's cool."

Leonard sighs and rustles one of his wings when a particular sensation he has come to utterly loathe begins to annoy him. After a pause, in which he tries to ignore it (yet caves almost immediately), he tells Jim, "Itch."

"Ah," Jim says knowingly. He obliges Leonard by scratching the itch at a place beneath McCoy's shoulder blades where the wings' bones break through the skin. "Better?"

"A little more."

Several seconds later. "How about now?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Oh, that's right!" Jim pulls an object out of the beer case which Leonard, in his ire, had failed to notice was there. "I'm buying you a back-scratcher, Bones."

_Didn't I agree to date you so you could be my back-scratcher?_

Huh, maybe that wouldn't be the best thing to say, Leonard decides. A quick test proves that the plastic back-scratcher is surprisingly very useful and satisfying. Leonard scrubs at that one spot which drives him nuts, mainly because he cannot reach it, until his skin threatens to start peeling. He waits impatiently then starts scratching his back again as soon as the discomfort fades. "When I find out who's responsible for these things," the winged man complains even though his face is a mask of bliss, "they're dead. A very, non-refundable kind of dead."

Suddenly Jim's interested in the miserable-looking cashier far, far away. He mumbles, "But wings aren't so bad, right?"

"They itch and mottle and I can't stand up straight in the bathroom or sit down comfortably on the crapper. What do you think?" Leonard stuffs the back-scratcher into the case of beer again, finally somewhat content. This is when he notices his companion's unusual silence. "Jim?"

Jim turns, smiles too brightly at him, if not a little nervously. "Line's moving again!"

They shuffle two more steps toward the register.

Leonard returns to sighing. "Once I've figured out how to get rid of the wings without damaging my nervous system, we can go back to Risa. "

"But isn't that where... you got them? You said you never wanted to see Risa again."

"Somebody there has to know the responsible party... Jim, what's the matter with you?"

The hint of panic in Jim's face melts away. "Nothing!"

Leonard looks at his partner for a long, long moment. "You know who did this to me, don't you?"

Jim takes on an expression which normally precedes a very big lie. "No, of course not, Bones!"

"Was it you?" McCoy growls.

"No, no," Jim laughs, an almost cackle, as he waves away the idea as ludicrous. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Maybe it was Spock."

Leonard, who doesn't like to picture Jim as a devious man, considers the suggestion. "You know," he begins slowly, imagining Spock with a scalpel and a wicked grin (never mind that it's incongruous to reality), "I bet it was him!"

"He is the mad scientist type," Jim points out.

"That—that HOBGOBLIN!"

An overhead voice on the store comm system interrupts Leonard's rant before it can begin. "Ladies and gentlemen... and angels, due to a register malfunction, Line 3 is now closed."

Jim's mouth turns to an O of surprise. Leonard instantly forgets about Spock and tries to spot the cashier, who slinks off to hide behind a rack of Klingon-advertised bubblegum. The toddler boy giggles at his cursing mother and leans out of her arms to pluck another feather from a distracted Leonard. "Mine!" he crows. "Birdie, mine!"

"Fuck," Leonard says succinctly, twitching away from the toddler. They can't escape until they've paid for the party goods.

A sign lights up at Line 5, and suddenly there is no more time for swearing, snarling, screaming, or swatting at baby humans. Leonard snakes out an arm, grabs a hold of Jim, and tows them through the mad rush to the next checkout line, where, sadly, they end up tenth in line behind an old man who starts counting (ancient) copper pennies to buy a five-dollar bottle of water.

_-Fini_


	29. The Beautiful Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beauty and love sometimes are the same thing, Leonard knows.

"Jim, surely you're done now."

"Just one more..." The young man adjusts the focus of his camera lens and the shutter clicks as he takes another picture of the San Francisco Bay.

McCoy huddles into his clothes for warmth and turns up the collar of his coat against the winds buffeting the bridge. He isn't quite certain how he ended up here watching Jim snap photo after photo of the same still, morning-grey water, except that he had listened to his lover espouse the beauties of the bay until the only way to quiet Jim and turn his attention to love-making was to promise him a day trip to the bayside by the end of the week.

And here they are, standing so high above the tranquil water that Leonard can see sea birds pin-wheeling in the sky and old steamer ships sending up puffs of white, fog-like clouds as they cut silently through the bay. Jim is enthralled by the view, reduced to murmurs of boyish excitement while he expertly wields his grandfather's camera. Leonard had offered to bring a newer digital cam, one he purchased less than a year ago, but Jim wouldn't hear of it.

"One beauty deserves to be appreciated by another, Bones," Jim had said, dropping a chaste kiss to McCoy's mouth and pushing away from the kitchen table with the ancient camera lovingly cradled in his hands.

Jim Kirk sees beauty in old things. Classic things, he will say. Full of history. That's what makes them beautiful.

Leonard idly wonders if this how Jim sees him, as classically aged and weathered with years upon years of history. It wouldn't be untrue. He is the older man in their relationship by a full decade. Where Jim strides through life with his youth shining like a beacon, catching both the world's envy and attention, Leonard walks his life's path at a slower pace, his age secured about him like a mantle, soft, familiar, and comfortable.

The age difference has to be part of the attraction that brought them together.

Beauty, of course, is the rest of it. Leonard has never felt a love more beautiful than the one which fills him when he wakes up next to Jim. His deepest wish is that this feeling, this love of theirs, never fades, as many beautiful things are wont to do.

"Bones," Jim asks, leaning into Leonard's side at the bridge's railing now that he has used the last of his film, "what are you thinking?"

"Nothing much," Leonard says. His eyes track activity on a dock farther along the shoreline. The sailors look small but intent on their work.

Jim rubs a hand, fingers cold at the tips, against the back of Leonard's neck. "You have that look, like you can't decide if you should be happy or melancholy."

"I must get it often, then, if you recognize it," Leonard half-laughs, strangely touched.

"Sometimes," Jim agrees. He tugs Leonard around to tuck the camera into its case hanging from McCoy's shoulder and then to steal a kiss. "Want to go for a stroll on the docks?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

Jim catches his hand and leads them to the path that will relinquish them from their tower to the busy world below.

"Jim," Leonard asks on a whim as they walk, "what's a young guy like you doing with an old man like me?"

Jim smiles. This isn't the first time he has heard the question, though it's been said in many ways before: tentatively, jokingly, angrily. "Only one reason applies, Bones" is the answer he gives, like always.

Leonard sighs noiselessly, heart lightened, and doesn't need to hear more. They love the beauty within each other. What other reason should there be?

_-Fini_


	30. The Man in the Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard's job is to take care of the dead, in more ways than one. Warning: character death.

The once white-and-red Tom Petty t-shirt was wet and mud-covered, somewhat torn, when they discovered him in the backyard of the abandoned Banner House. _James T. Kirk, college student, missing for six days. One parent still living, a mother, the town's librarian_. McCoy's mind flashed with words from the newspaper articles. They painted a heartbreaking picture now that James (or 'Jim' according to his friends) had been found.

The young man almost looked peaceful in death, like he'd fallen asleep, except his neck was twisted at an unnatural angle from a bad fall (or worse, by the hands of a killer, but no one had declared the scene as a homicide yet). Leonard, with gloved hands, lightly touched the juncture where shoulder and neck met, studying a protrusion. It must have been a fall, not an expert snap of the kid's neck. But from where? he wondered, looking around the unkempt yard. Not the steps leading up to the house, they were too shallow. The body had been moved, then.

There was a loud bang, a knock against the rusting gate around the front of the house as someone went through it in a hurry, and suddenly voices were breaking up the hushed chill of morning with questions and demands. A grim line flattened McCoy's mouth. Someone had alerted the media. He felt more than heard cars pulling in close at the dead-end of the lane. Over the overgrown hedges blocking the street view, people would be filing out of their reporter vans, talking and taking orders, ready to investigate this mystery for themselves.

How long until Ms. Kirk heard about her son's body? If the media had any decency in them, Leonard thought, they would wait until the poor woman had been informed by kinder people than strangers on television soaking up tragedy like vultures picking at carrion.

He briefly returned his attention to the body, knowing what he couldn't guess at now he would have time to inspect and conjecture about at the coroner's office. McCoy stood up and stepped back, letting the police do their work in order to prep the body for transport to downtown. He spoke to the detective pacing the yard, a man with hawk's eyes drawing out clues from bent grass blades and marks in the dirt. Their conversation was almost scripted, since they had to deal with one another on a frequent basis. Satisfied that there wouldn't be any delay in the police-work (and, more importantly, in _his_ process), McCoy wandered around the side of the Banner house.

He couldn't go in. He was a doctor who ran a morgue, not a CSI unit and nobody would let him through simply because he was curious. And if he tried to give them a better reason, they would laugh in his face.

The prickling sensation between his shoulder blades wasn't aimed at the interior of the house anyway. There was a woodshed, as derelict as the rest of the property, standing alone in a corner of the wide backyard. After checking to make certain no one from the detective's team had eyes on him, Leonard slipped up to it. The door, half-hanging from its hinges, had no lock. Leonard went inside.

James T. Kirk looked better here, if a little wan, than he did sprawled in the weeds of the yard.

"Hey," Leonard said softly, not wanting to startle him.

Kirk didn't react immediately (most of them didn't) and when he finally focused on McCoy, his stare was murky and dazed. "Hello?"

"I'm Leonard." He leaned against the wall of the shed like he had no other place to be—or like he belonged there, talking to a dead person.

"...I'm...Jim," the other said.

"I know."

Jim's eyes tracked slowly past Leonard, across the wall and floor to an overturned, rotting wheel barrow. "I don't understand. Do I know you?" His voice wavered.

Leonard sighed noiselessly. _The entire county knows you by now._ "We've never met." He hesitated. This part was not easy but because of his gift he felt some obligation to give comfort where he could. "Look, Jim... it's okay, you're okay now. But I think you should know something bad happened to you."

Some spirits hunched in on themselves at those words; others, afraid because they had some inkling of what Leonard was trying to tell them, got angry. Jim looked resigned.

"Your body's dead." Leonard had long since learned the blunt truth was less painful than stumbling over a poor explanation.

Jim shivered. "I'm dead?"

"Your _body_ is," he emphasized, "but not what makes you, well, you."

Jim's mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile, and Leonard found himself suddenly caught by a disturbing sense of familiarity. They could have been two old friends meeting on a street corner rather than inside the semi-darkness of a shed, one man in his after-life and the other not.

"Why are you so calm? And you're trying to be nice to me. I'm not your first, am I?"

Leonard debated on how to answer that. "Not my youngest, either."

Jim turned away at the cutting reality of the admission. A panicked expression momentarily flitted across his shadowed face. "Oh god… _Oh god!_ " he gasped repeatedly. "I'm really..."

Leonard's voice rumbled with sympathy. "I'm sorry, kid."

"But I was walking home—what _happened_?"

"Don't know."

Jim moved then, much more swiftly than before, crossing the room to confront Leonard. "Okay, I'm d-dead, I get that," he said fiercely even though he faltered over the word, "but I shouldn't be! I had things I wanted to— _shit_ , my mom. Does my mom know?"

He nodded, because if Winona Kirk didn't know already, she would within the hour.

Jim lifted a hand as if to touch him but hesitated. He probably wasn't ready to acknowledge he was no longer corporeal.

Leonard stiffened anyway because being touched by a spirit was an unpleasant experience. The only worse experience was being possessed by the dead, and that was akin to drowning in a cold lake. Afterward, it had taken Leonard close to a year to put himself back together emotionally.

Jim stepped back. Leonard's tense expression smoothed and he relaxed his fists.

"Can I see her?" the young man asked Leonard.

Leonard shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. Most people won't be aware of you."

"You can see me, though. Because you're psychic?"

He smiled mirthlessly. "I don't know what I am, Jim."

Jim studied him, and Leonard could feel the turn of his thoughts. Leonard was about to protest Jim's idea (he had tried to help spirits with their unfinished business before and it never ended well) when the shed door rattled.

Jim immediately backed up to the far wall, face frozen by uncertainty. Leonard closed his eyes.

The door opened and a tall shadow stooped inside the low doorway. The detective did not enter, but the fast sweep of his eyes took in the state of the shed—moving past Jim without pause—and Leonard awkwardly poised within it. "Dr. McCoy," he said, settling on Leonard's title with chilly disapproval. "I thought you had left the premises."

He gave the detective, named Spock, who lacked a sense of humor, a thin smile. "I had something to do first." He looked directly at Jim, who watched Spock with a strange expression.

Spock stared at McCoy for a long minute, saying nothing.

"Black," Jim said without warning, eyes unfocused. "He had black hair and...a scar above his eye, I think."

"Who did?" Leonard asked. He ignored the scrutiny of Spock's gaze.

Jim shivered again. "I don't know. I just, I saw the face for a second." The bleakness in Jim's tone stabbed at Leonard's heart.

Leonard drew in a quiet breath. The sound of his first name caught his attention. He realized then that Spock had been talking to him. "Sorry," he apologized.

"Are you well?" Spock's look said he didn't think Leonard's health was the issue. But then again, the detective knew Leonard was a strange man (though not _how_ strange).

McCoy pushed away from the wall. Spock yielded and let him pass through the shed's door. Leonard turned and looked directly at Jim, who was still a frozen pale shadow in a dark corner, knowing that Spock would assume the question was for him. "Unless you had plans to hang about in that rat trap, are you coming?"

Jim followed on Spock's heels. If Spock felt a cold chill along his spine, he didn't mention it.

They passed the tarp covering the body. Jim skirted around it without looking.

"Doctor..." the detective's voice trailed off. Maybe the man vacillated between reprimanding Leonard and worrying for him.

Leonard decided to throw him a bone. "The killer," he said as if it wasn't a big deal, "had dark hair and a scar on his face."

People were always so stunned when he said things like that. Spock, however, simply narrowed his eyes. Leonard knew he had to get away as quickly as possible before the detective questioned him about how and why he would say something so random but with such conviction. Especially because, though it wasn't known yet, Spock had clearly concluded James T. Kirk had been murdered.

"C'mon," Leonard muttered under his breath. The spirit of the body soon to be autopsied by Leonard's own steady hands did not protest. Spock's eyes never left McCoy's back until he was hidden from view.

It wasn't for the first time, as Leonard headed to his car, that he wondered why he let himself care for the dead. _Probably because most of the living can't_ , he thought tiredly, watching Jim ponder the door handle on the passenger's side to Leonard's Volvo.

"Don't worry about opening it," he said gruffly, keeping his voice low enough not to be overheard by curious people waiting for glances of what had interested the reporters from behind a police barrier of tape and patrol officers. "Just get in."

"I don't know what I'm doing," Jim said with a grimace. Yet he did as Leonard instructed and was surprised when it worked.

"Me either," Leonard McCoy agreed. He folded himself behind the driver's wheel and started the car. "But we'll muddle through somehow, Jim."

_-Fini_


	31. Bad Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Car chases almost always end badly. Leonard learns this the unfortunate way. Warnings: ample swearing, murder.

Leonard checks his rearview mirror for the third time in two minutes. Same black sedan. Tinted windows and Jersey Devils plate on the front.

_Fuck._

His fingers drum nervously on his steering wheel as he decides what he is going to do. I'm just an accountant at a small town corp, the man thinks. This isn't supposed to happen to me!

His conscience flings back, _Yeah? And how may accountants have a bookie they owe a couple of grand to?_

He tells the common sense part of his brain to fuck off and, spying an exit three lanes over, performs the antics of a crazy stunt driver. Horns blare in the wake of his last-minute spin of the wheel, when he cuts in front of a soccer mom minivan, U-Haul, and an eight-wheeler to get to the interstate exit just before his front bumper can clip the orange road divider. Leonard's heart is pounding as he fights his car down to a speed that won't tip him over on the twenty mph ramp. The air vents pump in the smell of burning rubber a split second before Leonard successfully merges onto a partly deserted highway. Luckily, though, his wheels are still intact.

The first chance the man gets, he swerves into a side street and parks between two restaurant dumpsters. He has lost police cruisers this way, and in this state cops can be fucking crazier than race-car drivers. Surely that sedan didn't have the time to follow him or, he hopes, the balls to commit vehicular suicide.

"That's what desperate people do," Leonard mutters to himself. Switching off his car, he tips his head backward with a sigh and closes his eyes.

Of all the ways to start a Monday morning...

~~~

"You're late, McCoy."

Silently, Leonard dips his head in acknowledgement of his boss and skirts past the pot-bellied man.

Said man snags his arm, delaying his slinking away in shame. The receptionist, watching them, lifts the phone to her ear to pretend there is something other than a dial tone on the other end and she isn't, in fact, eavesdropping.

"This is the third fucking time!" Leonard's boss snarls. "I pay you to get your ass to work at eight - not a half past ten!"

"I'll make it up."

His boss snorts derisively, his eyes dark and mean. "Yeah-fucking-right."

Leonard tugs against the man's fingers digging in his arm. _Damn it,_ he thinks, _let go, you ugly little slug._ He can feel his blood pressure rising.

The man snorts again and flings Leonard's arm away like it burns him. "Get to work, McCoy—and forget lunch today."

A punishment which violates some kind of work law, McCoy would bet. But Leonard only nods, swallowing a nasty rebuttal that sours his mouth, and goes to his desk.

The receptionist returns the phone to its cradle, shaking her head.

~~~

It's past 7 o'clock when Leonard finally decides he might as well face his crappy predicament. He is alone in the office building, having watched all of his co-workers head home at a quarter 'til 5. The boss, of course, had left at three in the afternoon because that's what bosses—and company owners—apparently do. A vending machine danish wrapper crinkles under the wheels of Leonard's office chair as he pushes back from his desk to stand up. Legs stiff from hours of sitting, Leonard moves with a slight limp to the copier and retrieves the last document he had printed and forgotten. Some days he imagines a fire taking the entire building out. God knows, they have enough faulty wiring and old wood paneling from the early '70s to make this place go up in flames like a tinderbox.

But then he'd be out of a job, and fat chance ever finding another one in this shitty economy.

He'd also have his bookie crawling up his ass to scavenge his intestines for payment. No loan shark likes an unemployed gimp writing IOUs to cover his debts.

Leonard turns off the office lights, locks the main door, and drives to an ATM to check his bank account balance. He withdraws his last two hundred dollars in hopes a small bit of cash is better than no payment at all.

Leonard goes home first to change out his suit jacket. He hasn't found a trick yet that can disguise blood stains, and it's his only suit jacket left.

Going home is the worst mistake he could have made.

~~~

The lights are out. Literally. He flips a switch and nothing happens.

Leonard stands one foot within the doorway of his cheap, one-bedroom apartment, frozen like a deer that has suddenly seen a hunter and a rifle in the bushes. His stomach cramps with nerves. Following his instinct, he backs through the open door.

But Leonard McCoy doesn't make it far.

Someone shoves him from behind. He stumbles into a side table, causing the small cigarette dish he uses to toss his keys into to crash to the floor and shatter. Leonard grabs the first thing to hand and swings it as he turns around.

The assailant ducks. Leonard smells an aftershave he almost recognizes.

"Fuckfuckfuck," he says, breathing rapidly. Leonard swings the lamp again, rather wildly in the dark. "Stay back, motherfucker!"

The shadow of a man crosses the window, and the streetlight from between the blinds catches on the plane of a hard jaw and short, spiky hair.

And a gun.

Leonard's fingers go numb. He doesn't realize how terrified he is until his back hits a wall and his legs start to tremble.

"I got the money," he says quickly.

The shadow has completely stilled now, just behind the couch. There is enough light to tell the man's mouth is smiling at Leonard. "Who says it's money that I want?" comes a silky baritone.

"B-But the—"

"Fuck your bookie," the shadow man barks out, laughing lowly. "What the fuck do I care about that? My car, man," he says. "'Cause of you, I fucked up my _car_."

Leonard swallows hard. He reminds his shaking hands not to let go of the lamp. "Listen," he begins, wetting his lips nervously, "I'm sorry about that." Then his stupid mouth, which seems completely detached from his brain, adds, "Maybe you shouldn't have followed me."

" _What did you say?_ " The laughter this time isn't mocking, it's angry. "You know what? Doesn't matter. My job is to collect from the little pissants who try to cheat my boss outta his due, and I generally I have to fuck a man up first before I can get to the collecting part. But I don't think I'm gonna bother pussy-footing around with you," Leonard is told.

He hears a click of the safety on the gun, presumably to an off position.

"I can pay for it!"

There is a pause. "I said I didn't want money."

Leonard transfers the lamp to one hand and shoves the other hand into his pants pocket, revealing a wad of crushed, sweaty bills. "Take it!"

"How much?"

He could lie... but not with a gun pointed at his head. "Two hundred."

"I'll need two thousand."

His throat works for a moment. "I-I don't have that. Fuck, this is all I got until my next payday!"

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure!" he screams. "I got nothing but this and my bones. What the fuck else can I give you?"

"Not a damn thing, Bones," the man says, stepping out of the shadows, "except my revenge."

Leonard's mouth goes dry in the instant before the gun fires. "Jim?"

~~~

Jim rolls the dead man face up on the floor. "Sorry, Bones," he says, reaching down to touch the white skin now empty of Leonard's horrified expression, "but you know I don't make friends. Bad business and all." He tucks the two hundred dollars into his jacket pocket, wipes down the fingerprints on the apartment door knob and strolls out.

_-Fini_


	32. A Fortunate Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is just a nice guy. One man in particular discovers that can be extremely annoying.

Jim is wearing glasses since his renewal for his contacts' prescription was very last minute; this is typical of Jim, as he often forgets anything not pertaining to his career and, as some would say, would lose his head if it wasn't attached to his body. Which is understandable, the guy would insist to anyone who asks, because his job is _awesome_.

The question following this statement is often "Oh, what do you do?" Then Jim begins to explain enthusiastically... and his conversation partner's eyes glaze over.

It cannot be helped.

Jim Kirk is a likeable guy, but he is a likeable guy with a job whose most basic description encompasses words most people have never heard of or are unlikely to comprehend if they have. It is his Achilles' heel to socializing, even if he seems unaware of it.

 _Poor Jim Kirk_ , the barista at the local coffee store whispers to her friend on the opposite side of the counter. _He's so sweet but kind of a dork._

The friend, who hasn't seen Kirk before, replies, _Yeah but minus those glasses, obviously he's a good-looking dork. Is he single?_ The barista tries to talk her friend out of the idea, but the young woman insists, _I'm going over there!_

She returns within two minutes, having narrowly escaped death by conversation and looking slightly dazed.

 _I told you,_ the girl behind the counter says knowingly. She shakes her head in mock sadness, repeating, _Oh, that poor, poor man!_

~~~

The barista isn't wrong about Jim Kirk being sweet. Case in point is the day Jim meets Bones.

~~~

Jim has a week off from work. Truth be told, Jim would have preferred to putter about his office and poke his nose into the various projects his management position requires him to oversee, but HR realized Jim hasn't had a day of vacation in seven years. According to HR, _this will not do_.

What they really mean is: when he retires the company doesn't want to have to buy him out with an exorbitant sum for vacation days. But to Jim, HR talks about "healthly practices" and "rejuvenation of the mind."

So Jim wanders along a street not far from his condominium, somewhat sad because he doesn't know what to do with himself. He tried sleeping in that first morning but his body said no. He tried to shift his weekend ritual of going to the gym into a weekday but was confused by all the women of various ages running around in yoga pants before breakfast. Thus he went home again, fed his tropical fish, and stuffed himself into a "I'm on vacation" outfit and set about meandering around the city block.

How disappointing this is, Jim is thinking as he idly stands by a streetlamp and observes the workday traffic. By a half-past nine o'clock, the streets are clear of honking cars and people in a rush to work. There is only Jim and a mother and two kids carrying groceries from a corner-store market, a few joggers, and a man walking his dog.

Jim not-so-subtly follows the man and the dog to a neighborhood park. The dog-walker, being suspicious even of Jim's innocent face, purposefully walks toward a policeman. Jim however, captivated by the sight of a place he hasn't been before, continues obliviously down another sidewalk to the fountain in the center of the park. Once there, he tucks his hands into his pockets and stares at the spray of water for some time, planning a way to sneak back into his office. Maybe if he called his boss, he muses, and begged for a high-priority project that needed doing _right that instant_. Then they'd have to let him back in!

His thoughts are derailed slightly when he spies a pair of legs jutting from behind one of the stone corners of the fountain. As Jim sidles in that direction, he discovers the legs belong to a man in a dirty shirt clutching a crinkled paper bag. The stench of an unwashed body and potent alcohol is prominent from several feet away. Other park visitors would be certain to give this man a wide, wary berth. Instead, Jim approaches the despondent-looking fellow and crows cheerfully, "Good morning!"

After a second or two (no doubt born of disbelief) a gruff voice replies, "Just drop the cash in there." The man indicates a lop-sided felt hat which looks like it has been chewed on by rats.

Jim blinks.

The man squatting next to the fountain opens one jaundiced eye. "This ain't a freak show, kid. Either donate to my charity fund—" Here he barks out a laugh and takes a quick swallow from the bottle covered by the brown bag. "—or move along."

"Oh," Jim says, feeling awkward. He goes to open his wallet, only to realize he doesn't have it and cannot remember the last place he put it. So, feeling even more awkward, he drops the sole content of his pocket, a peppermint, into the hat.

The man, clearly a louse or another sad statistic of the homeless or both, plucks out the peppermint and scowls at it. " _Sonuvabitch!_ You think that's funny?"

"It's all I have," Jim says, pushing his glasses back up his nose from where they've slid down. "I'm sorry." Then he has a bright idea, because all of his ideas are bright, indeed, and _awesome_ (but sometimes land him into trouble too). "Hey, my place is around the corner! I can get my wallet and take us both out to breakfast. Do you like breakfast?"

The peppermint is summarily discarded back into the hat. The man eyes him, his mouth pressed into a thin line beneath a week-old beard. "What are you—some kind of pervert?"

Jim is taken aback by the accusation. He shakes his head.

"A social worker?"

"Um, no."

The man looks around them slowly. "Where's the camera?"

"Camera?" echoes Jim, bemused.

Slumping against the fountain, the man grumbles, "A good Samaritan then. Well, kid, it don't matter if you feed me or not. One meal with a hobo ain't going to get you into heaven."

Jim shuffles in place for a moment, looses a heart-felt sigh, and confesses, "I'm supposed to be on vacation."

For once, the man seems as confused as Jim. "What?"

"Vacation," Jim repeats. He scratches at his elbow absently. "I can't find anything to do. I—don't know what I'm supposed to be doing."

Apparently Jim is crazier than the homeless man; at least, that is what the homeless man's expression implies. "And so you came over here to bother me? Jesus. Look," he adds, turning away slightly, "leave me alone, kid. If you're really on vacation, go do something normal like find a beach to sun on or a mountain to ski down."

"But—" Jim begins, only to stop himself. For a long moment, he stares at the man who is blatantly trying to ignore him. Decided, Jim takes two steps forward, reaches down and tugs on the man's arm. "Breakfast," he says hopefully, stubbornly.

"You _are_ crazy," the other man announces, but he levers himself to his feet anyway.

Jim sticks out his hand to valid this fact. "I'm Jim Kirk."

Jim's hand is shaken tentatively and very briefly.

"Hi, Jim." Then he snorts at his own sarcastic tone and lifts his open liquor bottle to his mouth.

Jim stalls the motion, wincing. "Maybe you should leave that here?"

The fellow lifts his eyebrow but he doesn't seem angry over the suggestion. "What, for the birds or the next hobo? This drink is all I got left, kid. Where I go, it goes."

"I don't think it can go to my breakfast club. But you can leave it at my house and pick it up after breakfast. I got a shower you can use too, if you want." Jim's eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles kindly.

Blood-shot eyes return his stare. "You're... not right, Jim. Has it crossed your mind that I could hurt you or steal your shit? I'm a drunk," He holds up his brown bag-covered bottle, "not to mention a guy who sleeps on bus benches. Your kind and my kind—they don't mix."

"I guess," Jim says with a shrug, pushing at his glasses again. "But I think you can help me as much as I can help you."

"Damn it, I knew there was a price," the man mutters. "Look, I ain't got nothing for sale. _Nothing_ , you understand? I may be down on my luck but I got some pride left. And as sure as the sun don't shine in hell I'm gonna keep my virtue too," he snaps.

That takes a second to process in Jim's brain and when it does, color flushes just under the collar of his shirt. "It's nothing like that!"

"It's always something like that" comes the dark reply.

"I just—" Jim blushes some more. He mumbles.

"What?"

"I said I want to tell you about my job." Jim stuffs his hands into his pants pockets and watches an ant attack a breadcrumb on the ground. There is silence. Jim breaks it by explaining further, "I'm not good at, I mean, people don't... listen. They ask me what I do for a living but when I tell them, they just sort of disappear. Which I don't understand!" he ends earnestly.

His companion looks apprehensive. "So what's your job?"

Jim tells him in a sentence or less. But it's a long sentence.

"I see."

"Is it that... boring?"

"No."

But Jim sighs. "Then why are you eyeing your bottle?"

The man answers slowly, "I'm debating if this is a hallucination or not." He falls silent again.

Jim takes this as a bad sign. He raises his hands in apology. "I'm sorry if I bothered you, sir. I'll just—"

"Oh, what the hell," the man blurts out. With a stride that belies his poor appearance, he goes to the nearest trash bin and dumps his bottle, brown paper bag and all, into it. Turning back to Jim, he says, "You got a deal, kid. Granted, I think it's a raw deal for you, but that's your problem. Where are we going to breakfast?"

"I know a diner close by," Jim says, his face lighting up.

"You mean Frankie's? I like their peach waffles." Thus in mutual agreement, they head out of the park.

"Gee, this is great! Is it okay if I talk about my research too?"

"Food first."

Jim smiles affably and thinks that he might enjoy his vacation after all, particularly since a person needs to eat three times a day. Of course, it would be rude to call his breakfast, lunch, and dinner companion 'the man' for an entire week. "Hey, what's your name?"

"This isn't a date. I don't gotta tell you my name."

"Then can I name you?"

"I'm a hobo, not a pet, Jim."

"But..."

An explosive sigh. "Fine. Call me Bones."

Jim isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He pats his shirt pocket and frowns, then stops walking. Bones halts as well.

"Um, Bones, I can't find my keys." He looks thoughtful. "I guess I forgot them too."

"You were dropped on your head as a baby, weren't you?"

Jim's eyes widen. "How did you know? My mom said that's what made me so smart." Unfortunately, Jim is a genuine fellow and this is a genuine fact of his life.

" _Oh god_ ," Bones says with distinct regret, "I'm not drunk enough for this." He appears to be talking to the sky so Jim remains dutifully quiet.

"I want coffee," the homeless man is saying. "That shower too. You probably got extra underwear." He grumbles to the world at large until they are at Jim's condo. Bones turns to Kirk then and warns him, "I'm only going to say this once, kid: you feed me, I listen to your drivel and big words, and that's _it_. We are not friends."

Jim nods with enthusiasm. "Okay. Friends only until the end of vacation."

Bones sputters, "That's not what I said, Jim!"

But Jim is already looking elsewhere, down the hallway. "I need to find the landlord. He keeps my spare key. Since we're friends now, Bones, you can have it..."

And that is how, thereafter, Jim Kirk had a friend to talk to who actually listened to him.

_-Fini_


	33. Blind to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story of Jim and Bones where beginnings and endings make all the difference, especially when they are the same. Warning: character death.

It started out simply enough. Jim fell in love with a man named Bones. Well, to be precise the name _Bones_ was a gift from Jim himself. It wasn't that Jim didn't appreciate Bones' real name. He merely enjoyed bestowing a special name upon a special person; or, that is, upon a man Jim knew would be special to him for a very long time.

But this story hasn't begun where it should. Jim fell in love with a man named Bones...

...and then Bones left him.

That is the beginning of many things, all of them equally interesting and somewhat sad. To tell you this story in a way that can be digested without much repercussion or heartache, that beginning won't be _our_ beginning. We shall rewind to a happier moment, to a day when Jim was unaware of what was to come and was burdened by it. The most important things to remember concerning this moment are the facts: Jim met Bones, and Jim loved Bones, and Bones loved Jim back. They are facts which have never been proven otherwise, regardless of what we know to be the future. Perhaps, if one is honest, it is better to say _because_ of each undeniable fact, no other future was possible for Jim and Bones.

But again... we cannot concern ourselves with that. We begin before the beginning.

~~~

" _The sky is falling! The sky is falling!_ " Jim read with high-pitched enthusiasm from a children's book then paused for dramatic effect, lifting his eyebrows in a silent question. Several audience members clamored for him to continue.

Across the room, Leonard turned away from the scene and resumed a conversation with a young mother of one of the children sitting enthralled at Captain Kirk's feet.

"He's really good with kids," she remarked to McCoy, still watching James T. Kirk appreciatively.

Leonard lifted his coffee cup to hide a fond smile. "Jim's a kid at heart himself."

Her sigh was half-wistful and half-regret. With her thumb, she idly rotated with a gold band about one of her fingers.

Leonard couldn't help but chuckle. This woman wasn't the first to daydream about Jim, and she wouldn't be the last. He, however, was lucky enough to have a dream be his reality. ...Not that McCoy would ever admit to Jim there was a time when, lonely and enamored, he too had pined after the mighty captain. Jim's ego, in Leonard's opinion, was the size of a weather balloon. It didn't need to swell any bigger, or it would surely pop.

"Oh," the woman said, sitting up straighter in her chair and gathering her purse, "there's my husband." She smiled at Leonard. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor McCoy. Thank you for the coffee."

He nodded slightly. "Thank you for the company, ma'am."

She slid off her stool as she said, "Please thank Captain Kirk for me as well. It was very lovely of him to volunteer to read to the children. Georgie!" She called to a little boy of six who resolutely hunched his shoulders and tried to appear deaf to the sound of his name.

Jim was, now that he had finished the story, answering questions that only children would deem important. Georgie, it seemed, like the rest of the children wasn't ready to give up his attention.

A man approached Georgie's mother. She greeted him with "Can you get George, dear?"

The boy's father wordlessly lumbered off to the circle of children. He bent down, rather awkwardly, and said something to the child. Georgie, face mutinous, shook his head fiercely. Unfortunately, due to his small stature, the boy could not prevent his father from plucking him up from the floor and carting him away.

Jim, Leonard knew, had an uncanny sensitivity to upset children. Before the boy could start wailing his protests, Jim stood up and solemnly held out his hand for the boy to shake. "It was nice to meet you, Georgie," he said, eyes twinkling.

Boy and father stared at Kirk, no doubt struck dumb by Jim's sheer awesomeness. (Leonard thought this and snickered to himself.) Finally, Georgie's father remembered his manners and shook his bundle of boy to prompt a response. "Um, Captain Kirk, thank you. Georgie... George, say goodbye to the Captain."

Georgie blurted out, "I'm gonna be a captain too!"

His father's ears turned red.

But Jim grinned at this news. "Only the best of the best can be captains, Georgie. Are you the best of the best?"

"Yes, sir!"

"That's exactly what I thought when I saw you."

This is precisely what the boy wanted to hear. "I'm gonna go to the Academy and then I'm gonna grwaduate and then..." Very excited now, Georgie clung to his father's shoulder and kicked his legs. "...and then you'll let me be Captain of the Enterprise 'cause you'll be an old, farty Admiral!" He laughed delightedly at this idea.

Jim's eyes grew comically wide.

Georgie's mother gasped and snatched up her purse, hurrying away to silence her son before he completely shamed both of his parents in front of the legendary Captain Kirk. Already, Georgie's father was apologizing profusely and backing away with his son secured tightly in his arms. Leonard, still seated, bent his head to muffle his laughter.

"And I'm gonna fight lots and lots of Klingons _and save the universe!_ " Georgie was bellowing, intent on relaying his entire master plan to his idol.

Leonard was laughing so hard his arm was too weak to hold up his coffee cup. Dark liquid sloshed over its edge as it hit the tabletop with a _thunk_. His inability to control his limbs only worsened when a cute little girl in a white Sunday dress tugged on Jim's pants leg and asked around the thumb in her mouth, "Will you marry me, Mr. Captain Kirk?"

The bookstore owner graciously appeared to help Leonard clean up the coffee spill.

"Thanks," Leonard said over a mound of used napkins.

"While it's been a pleasure and an honor to have you and Captain Kirk stop by, I think you'd better save your friend." The owner winked.

Leonard turned around to see Jim miming frantically _help me, Bones!_ as he tried to wade through the remainder of his youngest fanbase in the San Francisco Bay area. Someone had stuffed a doll down the front of his shirt and three toddlers were vying for a piggy-back ride. Another child was beating Jim's kneecap with a storybook, apparently convinced if he felled the great Kirk, the man would never leave them.

"Jim, time to go," Leonard said as he strode toward his partner and deftly maneuvered children out of his way.

"I'm trying," Jim muttered under his breath. He flung out an arm to keep himself upright under the weight of the little bodies attached to his limbs. Leonard caught his hand and dragged him forward. He smiled, knowing exactly how to save Kirk, and put his plan into action.

A chorus of _EWWW's!_ rang throughout the bookshop. Somewhere, a little girl began to cry because her impending marriage to Kirk had clearly been thwarted. (For some of those adults watching Kirk and McCoy, this was the case also.)

Jim pulled back from Leonard's kiss with a pleased look on his face. The children had dropped off his person like flies and scattered. They didn't want to be exposed to the "cooties" Jim now sported.

"Love you, Bones," Jim said, a smile playing about his mouth and a soft look in his eyes.

Leonard brushed his thumb against Jim's jaw line one last time before stepping back. "'Course you do," he replied. "I'm the reason you're still standing, kid."

"I know," agreed Jim. He dropped a hand to Leonard's shoulder and squeezed it. "C'mon, Bones, let's go home."

And they did.

~~~

That was a lovely beginning, indeed. Jim loved Bones, Bones loved Jim, and clearly many, many other people felt the same way too.

But stories also have middles and endings. This story's ending, in fact, is _that_ (previously mentioned) beginning we are not yet certain we want to read. So let us have a middle instead.

~~~

"Do you think he will accept?"

The question was seemingly idle. Leonard almost huffed in exasperation but he felt the keen edge of Jim's unspoken worry and gave a comforting answer. "I don't see why he wouldn't, Jim. Spock's probably just acting the diva and waiting until the second before we launch outta the docking bay to show up." _Like last time_ , McCoy thought wryly.

The corner of Jim's mouth lifted as his eyes cut to Leonard. "Gee, don't downplay your sarcasm for my sake, Bones" came the dry reply. Jim laughed softly as they turned the corner of a brick building and headed for the open lawn of the Academy grounds. "Five years later and my two senior officers still can't play nice. Maybe it would be best if Spock didn't join the Enterprise for its second mission."

"Illogical!" McCoy quipped. " _He'd_ insist _I_ should be the one to give up his boat ticket, not the other way around."

"As if that would happen."

A smile briefly touched Leonard's face. "No, it wouldn't. Face it, Captain... I'm not going anywhere, neither is Spock—and you get another long-ass adventure through space with the two of us bickering at your back."

Jim caught Leonard's arm and stopped walking. His eyes glowed with warmth. "I wouldn't want it any other way, Bones."

Leonard absorbed Jim's sincerity, then agreed, "Me too, Jim. Me too."

~~~

"We're just beginning to rebuild the ranks," one admiral said to his colleagues. "Students have time for actual learning, as opposed to us sending them into deep-space assignments as soon as they enter their third year simply so we have enough people to man our starships. Utilizing our officers wisely, stationing them were they can lend their expertise to the less experienced, is the best course of action."

Admiral Pike tapped his finger against the arm of his chair, face grim. "Cartwright's point is a good one but it isn't _good enough_. If we split up our best team—from the flagship, no less—we will lose more than we stand to gain." He added to the thoughtful silence, "And Kirk won't agree to it."

"Kirk is still in his infancy!" someone protested.

"He's proven his ability to captain a starship more times than this counsel has combined," Pike stated, his sharp rebuttal akin to a slap. "And it's not just him—because that crew is who it is, Starfleet has gained invaluable knowledge, avoided wars, made powerful alliances and _lived up to its purpose_. As long as we can keep Kirk and his officers in space, _together_ , we should. It would be a grave mistake on our part to weaken that potential by dividing it." He almost spoke of destiny but swallowed the sentiment instead.

For some minutes, there was heated debate. Half of the Admiralty, like Pike, was impressed with the Enterprise and what its crew had accomplished in five years; the other half had opposed James T. Kirk's captaincy from the day Pike nominated him, and they would always feel Starfleet had been driven to an unpalatable decision by dire straits. To them, Captain Kirk was a symbol of how Nero had driven the Academy to its knees, entrusting a young, foolish man barely into his twenties to uphold the honor and pride of Starfleet.

"We can debate this until we all turn to dust," the admiral, Komack, at Pike's left interrupted, "but the fact remains the Enterprise ships out for her second mission in less than two weeks. We can't stall her longer than that. Kirk knows she is ready to go."

"The personnel files," another admiral said, a woman, "I want to see them again. If we did take liberties with the roster, who would we consider for reassignment?"

"The Vulcan," someone said immediately. "Offer him a captaincy."

"He wouldn't take it," Pike murmured.

"Replace the CMO. The Surgeon General is on the President's Board, you know, and it won't be that many years before he takes his retirement. McCoy has to have some kind of ambition, doesn't he?"

"I thought we said we wanted to keep them in space!"

Pike pushed out of his seat at the long table and grabbed for his cane, allowing himself only for a fleeting hatred for the thing. Could of been worse, he knew, so he shoved his distaste aside. "I have somewhere to be," he announced and limped painfully toward the exit.

"Admiral Pike!" Cartwright barked. "This meeting isn't adjourned!"

Pike paused in the doorway. "When I hear an idea I can stomach, I might come back," he told the room, and walked out.

~~~

Do you think this was how Bones left Jim? You would be wrong.

The Admiralty's attempt to dissolve the crew worked for only half a second, whereupon Jim read the orders for Uhura's and McCoy's relocation, had a moment of internal panic, remembered Pike's random cryptic warning to "do what you have to do", recovered from the panic and announced to the Bridge "fuck no!" (much to a slightly grey communications officer's relief). He then punched in a call to Sickbay to tell his CMO to strap himself into the nearest seat, ignoring Bones' alarmed "Jim, what's going on up there?"

Chekov, quite gleefully at Kirk's orders, sealed off all bays against the starbase security who would have boarded the Enterprise upon a certain Admiral's command and removed Uhura and McCoy by force. Sulu engaged the thrusters. Some of the Admirals, watching from their conference room, were shocked to see the Enterprise suddenly head for the closed dock doors—but somebody (Scotty was looking mighty pleased with himself for days afterward) hacked into the system and got them to open before there was horrendous accident; but many others, including Christopher Pike, were smiling to themselves as the Enterprise launched prematurely into its second mission.

Luckily for Jim, Spock hadn't opted to play "the diva" and had been aboard the ship several hours before the designated departure time. As the ship cleared the dock, then the starbase altogether, he turned to look at Kirk who was seated but clearly unhappy as he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, and said, "There will be repercussions, Captain."

"I'm aware of that, Mr. Spock," Jim replied humorlessly. "We'll deal with Command as we always have."

"By not giving a shit," Sulu muttered to his console, which prompted a nod from Chekov.

The Vulcan pretended not to hear that. "Sir, I must say..." he continued.

Jim twisted in his chair to look at his First Officer.

Spock paused, glanced at Uhura who held his gaze for a moment, then finished, "...thank you."

The Captain of the Enterprise relaxed. He faced forward again with a smile. "Mr. Sulu, warp factor three."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

Five minutes later, Doctor McCoy would barge into the Bridge, demanding an explanation and, upon hearing it, would have no words to express his gratitude except a heartfelt "Jim..." And Jim would understand everything McCoy couldn't say and drop his hand over Leonard's, his way of replying _I love you, too_.

~~~

That is how Bones didn't leave Jim—that time. Sadly, we are still upon the same path, heading towards the same ending. For what is good and precious and beautiful, such as love, is not always long-lasting. It is not always strong enough to survive. But if it does survive, it could very well be the reason behind the hardest decision a person has ever had to make...

~~~

Bones left Jim quietly. He did not weep over his leaving; and though there was some regret (for things he wouldn't do with Jim, for the plans they would never see fulfilled, for the happiness of being together in old age), there was also a kind of peace for Leonard.

He gave Jim a goodbye, despite Jim being unable to accept it or to say one in return.

He let Jim kiss him, too, but only because he was incapable of initiating the kiss himself.

"You're not leaving me," Jim said to him.

"We don't always get a choice, Jim," Leonard replied. The words were rasps from his throat, but they were gentle nonetheless. His hand grasped Jim's, chilly against Kirk's warm skin.

Jim wasn't crying either; the devastation in his voice was enough. "I can fix it, Bones. Just stay. Please, please, stay!"

" _Not my choice,_ " the doctor whispered back.

"It's not supposed to be like this," his friend, partner, and lover replied, dropping his forehead to their linked hands. "I wanted forever, Bones."

Leonard had no more strength for speech. He nodded faintly.

"What am I going to do without you?"

Bones was leaving him anyway, and Kirk knew it. He lifted his head and pressed his face against the bed-ridden man's shoulder.

"You said I can survive anything,... but this... I don't think I can survive this, Bones."

Jim stayed there, against Leonard, listening to one slow, feeble breath after another until there were no more. Someone touched his shoulder. Some time later, someone else gently tried to break the joining of their hands. Only then did Jim realize Bones' hand was cold, cold. He had failed to warm Bones up, to warm him back to life.

This ending for Jim was also a beginning. Bones had left, and Jim still had more years to live; and though Jim couldn't think of it this way, for he couldn't think beyond his grief at all, he was already surviving without the person he loved most. He would continue to survive, not because Bones had believed Jim could but because Bones had wanted him to, had asked him to do exactly that with a simple goodbye.

_-Fini_


	34. The Westerner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A western!style Bones (you know I can't resist that); loosely based on the wonderful moment in STXI when Bones turns back for Jim.

When Jim landed face-down in the dirt, he thought he was dead. He thought that car had run right over him and left tire tracks on his back. Certainly he had felt the impact of it, seen the world go dazzling white then ominous black.

Yet there was dirt up his nose, in his hair, under his fingertips. It billowed upwards in a small cloud under the onslaught of his loud, gusty breaths. Jim, still in the midst of panic (because death... he'd seen _death_ coming straight at him and hadn't had time to blink over it), let himself go completely limp on the ground. It was some time before his heart calmed enough that he could think about opening his eyes. It was even longer still until his limbs cooperated and allowed him to roll over onto his back.

The sky met him then, a brilliant, undisturbed blue. He slowly processed the sight, harboring only vague thoughts that it wasn't the right color, or cloudy, or sparse between the tall buildings which crowded the city he called home. In truth, Jim could hardly think in that moment. He simply enjoyed being alive.

If he had cared to pay attention to his surroundings, he would have noted the methodical sound of jingling, like the golden hand-bells rung by charity Santas on every street corner at Christmas-time, growing closer. He might have noticed the sharp cry of a hawk and saw two tiny birds chasing the masterful creature into a dive; he would have heard the whinny of a hard-ridden horse. Instead Jim thought he was caught in a special place, where the world was only part of his dreaming and meant not much at all.

The notion of a dream was suddenly dispelled when a shadow fell over his legs and spoke. "I'm lookin' fer a man."

Jim's drowsily lowered eyelids flew open. His first glimpse of the shadow's owner, backed by a bright sun which cast any facial features into darkness, was poetic. His eyes traced the outline of a hat, a gun holster on each hip (though empty), the short cropped cut of a vest, and cowboy boots. Jim saw a man who might have had a showdown with the legendary John Wayne. He remembered out-of-the-blue how he used to enjoy watching old Wild West films when he was younger.

Jim shaded his eyes. "Are you from Texas?" In his twenty-some odd years he had never met a Texan... well, not a Texan that dressed like _that_.

The hat tipped forward. "Not Texas, kid," and Jim had to agree now that he could delineate the slight drawl to the man's voice. Yes, it was a cowboy's drawl—but with a hint of something else, something buried.

Jim leveraged himself onto his elbows. "I'm from Iowa. I mean, I was _born_ in Iowa." He fully sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. "I live in Los Angeles now."

It occurred to Jim then that his current location was quite a long way from Los Angeles. He frowned. "I don't know where I am."

The man was silent for a moment before he offered his hand to hoist Jim to his feet. "Happens to the best of us," he said solemnly. "What's your name?"

"James Kirk—Jim." Jim dusted off his jeans and gave up on cleaning the dirt from his previously white t-shirt. He inspected his knuckles, caked with earth and something darker. He looked at the shadow man, who now had green eyes, a straight nose, and a cupid's bow mouth. A brief second of deja-vu swamped him. "Do I know you?"

"Depends. You a gambler?"

Jim shook his head.

"Ever robbed a bank or stolen a horse?"

Jim choked on laughter. "What? No! Why would I do those things?" Where in L.A. would he steal a horse? Maybe _horsemeat_ , in Chinatown.

"Then I reckon we've never met," the shadow man said. "I'd ask you some questions but I'm in a hurry and you ain't been here long enough to know much. Least ways, don't seem like it." His hat tipped again, this time because the man pulled it forward. "G'luck, kid." He turned away.

Jim, surprised by the man's sudden disinterest, lurched after him. "Wait!"

Spurs jingled on the man's boots; they fell silent as he stopped walking. He turned his head. Jim took that as a sign the man was listening.

"I don't know where I am," Jim said earnestly. "I don't know how to get home!"

"Can't help you with that."

Jim's eyes fell upon a stain on the man's vest, centered in the middle of his back. He looked at that stain and knew what it was but said, faintly, as things began to make sense, "I don't understand."

"Sorry, Jim, but I've got no explanation... not one you'd be ready to hear, I'm afraid."

Jim absently slid a hand across his knuckles, along his arm. Halfway to the elbow, there was a protrusion beneath the skin. He swallowed hard, afraid to look at it. The stranger took his silence as acquiescence for leave-taking and plodded towards a black horse standing by a desert shrub not far away. A soft jingling filled the air again.

Jim glanced around and saw little but open, unfriendly land. He opted for the only course available to him. "I can help you!" Jim called as he trotted towards the horse and the man lifting himself into a saddle.

"I doubt that. Just keep west, the sun at your back," he advised Jim.

"Hey, I'm alone out here! Let me come with you." Jim had never felt a moment, a choice, mattered so much until now.

The man's profile spoke of a hard personality but the fingers tangled in the lead had loosened, gentled. He said without looking at Jim, "The journey's supposed to be made alone."

Jim caught a stirrup in his hands, fingers aching as he clenched it, and made a last argument, one he hoped was not futile. "Do you even know who you're looking for?"

Those green eyes dropped to his; they were sharp, searching, and also a touch resigned.

"I mean," Jim hedged, fighting to keep his voice level, "he shot you in the back, right? You couldn't have seen his face."

"Did you see your killer?" Jim was asked in return.

White headlights, a faceless driver. The protest of an engine. The desert suddenly smelled of diesel.

He mutely shook his head. His neighborhood had been swallowed up by darkness since the city couldn't afford to keep replacing the street lamps. Local gangs shot the bulbs out for fun. Jim had crossed the street, tracking an invisible path to his apartment by moonlight.

Not enough time to react. Not enough time to say a word.

"Please," he said, dropping his forehead against the hard edge of the saddle. The horse did not shy. "Please," Jim repeated, feeling tears burning in his eyes. "If this is hell, don't make me endure it by myself. It w-wasn't even supposed to happen, not to me." _Not like that._

"Death always happens," the voice murmured over his head. "I'm sorry, Jim."

He took a hold of himself and dropped his hands back to his sides and stepped away from the horse and rider. With a soft click of the tongue, the man urged his black steed forward. Jim tucked his cold hands in his armpits and made a slow, lost circle, trying to gain some bearing of where he was—or where he needed to go. He had no idea.

Too fast. How could it happen so fast?

What was he going to do now?

He felt rather than saw the moment that changed everything. Jim stilled, dared to hope, and listened intently.

It came, the sound of his name. "Jim." Again, more forcefully. "Jim!"

Jim turned.

The man on his horse, at the horizon, beckoned him. "All right."

Jim did not hesitate; he ran toward the horizon, his back turned resolutely from sun.

_-Fini_


	35. A Plot Above All Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys toting guns and romance - it's all part of a very good tale.

"...and then he took the shot and the tank blew—"

Sulu interrupted Chekov's fervent re-telling of the adventure (or what Hikaru Sulu considered a _mis_ -adventure). "He _missed_ , Pavel. The bullet ricocheted off the handle of the SUV and hit the pump. "

"No, the Captain—but, that vas not a mistake!" Pavel was indignant on behalf of his beloved hero.

Sulu tried to put the story back into realistic context. "So Kirk fired his gun and the gas station blew up. BOOM! Huge ball of fire! Debris everywhere!" He flung his hands into the air to encompass the enormity of the explosion.

"Did he die?" a member of the audience asked, a young female assistant who worked with Gaila in the weapons department.

Gaila rolled her eyes. "Of course not. Jim's like the cat that came back the very next day. I stabbed him once. It didn't take."

Her co-worker gaped.

" _Accidentally_." Gaila's expression might have implied otherwise.

"He did not die," Sulu agreed solemnly, "but for a moment we thought he had. McCoy had been in the van when the operation went south, because you know how Pike feels about Kirk and McCoy working together."

"Disaster in the making," Nyota Uhura confirmed, her chin propped in her hand. Until now she had been listening silently to the recounting of events.

Sulu nodded wisely. "Next thing I knew McCoy was halfway across the parking lot screaming Kirk's name."

Gaila clapped her hands gleefully. "It's a love story!" When a newcomer entered the employee lounge, she twisted in her seat to see the door, calling happily, "Scotty, come hear this!"

A short man trundled over and sat down. "Is this about the Op yesterday?" He peeled back the foil from a sandwich and took a healthy bite of his lunch. "They broke my new communicators."

"Sorry about that, Scotty," Sulu and Chekov chorused, as if they had actually done the breaking of the communicators themselves.

The engineer shrugged. "I'll just make 'em unbreakable next time."

Uhura smirked, no doubt thinking Scotty was going to be unpleasantly surprised. Equipment—even the awesome kind of high-tech equipment Scotty could invent for their operations—was not immune to the inherently destructive nature of James T. Kirk. If anything, it might be Jim's goal in life to break all of the new toys as quickly as possible, and creatively too.

Gaila peremptorily silenced everyone and demanded, "Continue!"

Chekov picked up the story again at Sulu's nod. "The Doctor vas distraught. I believe he shot two menacing individuals in passing as he ran to the Captain and did not blink."

The women looked surprised. It wasn't that Leonard McCoy refused to kill, he simply did his level best not to take lives unless he absolutely had to. Since Jim was kind of wild with a gun, the two men balanced each other out well.

(When it came to protecting each other, though, neither Kirk nor McCoy held back. That was a fact.)

Chekov was starting in on the part where McCoy lifted half of an exploded car off of Kirk in a moment of Hulk-ish strength (which wasn't _exactly_ the way it happened, but Pavel had always been a bit of an embellisher) when the lounge door swung open again. One look at the lounge's newest occupant and Pavel paled, quickly shutting his mouth.

Mr. Spock's eyes roamed over the huddle of people before zeroing in on the coffee percolator. He began to fix a cup of coffee.

Sulu hunched a little in his seat. He wasn't afraid of Spock (not overly much) but the senior agent was not likely to be in the best of moods. Kirk was down for the count with head trauma in the medical unit.

Gaila, as a weapons master and a black belt in every martial art, had no fear of anyone. "Did they finally express their undying love for another one?"

Mr. Spock's back had stiffened in that tell-tale way.

"Nooo," Sulu said slowly, eyeing the rigid line of Mr. Spock's shoulders.

She thumped her fist on the tabletop. "What the hell? I thought you said this was a love story, Sulu!"

Sulu had said nothing about love; that was Gaila herself—which clearly was not something he would dare call her on.

A ceramic mug made an ominous _thunk_ as it hit the counter. Mr. Spock turned on their group. But before he could speak (and berate them for their irrational penchant to gossip in the workplace), Uhura waved a hand, dismissing his unspoken, undoubtedly testy words.

"Spock," she said in a sweet voice that boded ill for the agent, "you skipped your debriefing this morning."

Awkward silence filtered through the room as most of the employees tried to look anywhere but at Mr. Spock and Pike's right-hand woman, Nyota Uhura. She knew everyone, everything, and every secret a person tried to keep from her. Pike called her his Number One.

"Affirmative," Spock admitted at last.

"Did you have somewhere more important to be?"

"I was in Medical."

She turned to look at him then, smiling in a very scary way. Even Spock looked scared, if the subtle flexing of his arms was any indication, meaning he had tightened the clasp of his hands behind his back.

"I wasn't aware you were injured."

"...I was not." Spock paused. "Captain Kirk was the only individual who required the attention of the medical staff."

The fact that he hadn't been able to prevent the danger to Kirk was always a mood-killer for Spock.

Gaila subtly poked at Uhura's thigh. "Look at the poor man. He's exhausted. I bet he paced the unit all night."

Uhura resumed her previous position. "Gaila has a point. You look like shit. Go to bed, Mr. Spock. Pike can wait a few hours to hear your report."

Scotty was staring at the senior agent while munching on his sandwich like this was the most fascinating confrontation he had been privy to in a long time. It probably was. He didn't leave his hidey-hole of engineering bliss very often. (It was also universally understood that the entire infrastructure of their covert intelligence agency would most likely collapse without his brilliance and his ability to invent miracles on short notice. Nobody bothered Montgomery Scott, not even Pike, for that reason.)

Undoubtedly peeved that he had been told what to do with himself, Spock said, "I am obliged to inform you that Mr. McCoy has had as little rest as I."

"Then make him nap with you."

Scotty choked on his sandwich.

Pavel and Gaila shared a brilliant grin.

Sulu did his best to seem unaffected, but it was difficult and he had to grip the sides of his chair.

Spock pivoted and exited the lounge swiftly, but not before he retrieved his cup of coffee.

The young woman—what was her name? nobody really remembered that, only the fact she liked to wear red—tossed out an observation with curiosity once Spock was gone. "I didn't know he drank coffee."

"Spock doesn't," Nyota said, "but Leonard does." She reached out and rapped the table with her nail to gain Chekov and Sulu's attention. "You didn't finish the story."

"The Captain was trapped under the wreckage, unconscious, bloody," Chekov began excitedly, "and when McCoy found him, he dropped to his knees and begged his god to spare the Captain's life—"

"Ah, Pavel," Sulu said rather mournfully, "not so much. Spock and McCoy found Kirk at the same time. I think they argued over who would rescue him. Pavel and I were betting on who would shoot who first for the opportunity when Kirk woke up—I don't think he had been out the whole time—and complained that he was bleeding to death while they bickered and—"

Chekov snickered.

"—it didn't matter who had the bigger gun, all size guns made him happy, and _would someone get him out already?_ "

Gaila was smiling, her chin propped on her hand to mirror Uhura. "This is a better story. How does it end?"

The two younger agents exchanged a glance. "We're working on that part," Sulu said as Chekov nodded.

Nyota checked her watch and sighed. "Damn, break's over." She stood up, brushed off her uniform and told them all, "I expect a new chapter by next month. The ending... is negotiable, since these things take time."

Sulu acknowledged the deadline with a "Yes, ma'am."

Pike was in charge but that didn't mean Uhura had no agendas of her own. Apparently Gaila was in agreement with Uhura's plotting as she stood up and announced, "If you make it to the sexy-times by then, I'll give each of you a free lesson in the weapon of your choice."

"Deal," Sulu said immediately. Sword-fighting was a long-awaited dream of his.

Gaila, Uhura, and the nameless red-shirt left the lounge, saying something akin to "Rookies make the best henchmen."

Sulu pretended not to hear that. Scotty examined his empty sandwich foil with sadness. Pavel wanted to know, "Vhat do we do now, Hikaru?"

Sulu thought about it for a long moment and said, "We switch to Plan B."

"Plan B?"

His mouth curved wickedly. "The Kidnapping."

"Oooh. Da, the _kidnapping!_ "

"Now which of our enemies is going to want to kidnap Kirk?"

"All of them. But I think," Chekov said, "it should be the two other who are kidnapped."

Sulu was already nodding. That would work well. That would work very well indeed.

_-Fini_


	36. We Fight to Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard and Jim duke it out on television.

"Are you _serious_?" a smartly dressed actress at Leonard's elbow exclaims.

"Deadly," McCoy quips, amusement dancing in his eyes. "In fact," here he looks out over the audience, "I believe we have a clip to back up that little tidbit. Pavel, can you play that for us?"

The audience cheers loudly. Nearby, a young man with short curly hair pokes his head around the set of the television show's stage and gives McCoy an eager nod and a thumbs-up. Behind Leonard, a screen lights up with a picture of downtown Manhattan. A familiar face comes on screen; the man is wearing a jogging suit and a large pair of sunglasses. The audience goes wild as the video begins to play.

Leonard's guest is as enraptured by the footage as everyone else. Leonard smiles to himself and gives the camera a very smug look.

~~~

Jim is whistling when he arrives at work that afternoon, but his whistling dies abruptly when he spies his newest group of interns huddling in a corner of the studio. A dark-haired man appears at Jim's side like an apparition and hands him a coffee cup.

"We need to review the script for tonight's show," Spock tells Jim.

"What are they whispering about?"

Spock doesn't answer. Jim realizes in that moment the interns aren't whispering—they're _laughing_. Immediately he shoulders his way in that direction, ignoring Spock's sharp "Jim, the _script_."

"Can wait!" he tosses back. "Hello,"he greets his interns, who stiffen and go suddenly silent at the sound of his silky tone. One of them tries to hide a tablet behind his back. "How is everyone this morning?"

They begin talking at once, stop, look at one another, and then try to scatter. Jim is known to be quick on his feet and in the next second he has caught the one with tablet by the back of his red shirt.

"M-Mr. K-Kirk," the poor kid stammers out.

"Hello, Riley."

Kevin Riley's eyes roll wildly in every direction but no one comes to his rescue. "Uh, hello? And good morning!" he adds as a too-cheery afterthought.

"Show it to me," Jim demands, holding out his free hand.

"No, sir, no, you don't want—"

"Oh, I want," he cuts in ominously. " _Now_ , Riley."

Kevin presents his tablet and closes his eyes. Jim lets Riley go and rewinds the youtube video. He watches as he appears on his morning jog and—oh shit, this is _not_ the day he got chased through the park by somebody's rabid dog.

But it is. Complete with an embarrassing Keystone Cops soundtrack, Jim sees himself running in circles around a tree, trying to trick the dog. Then he sprints for the bridge only to almost collide with a couple and their baby carriage. He trips out of the way just in time but hits the edge of the bridge and—

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. He'd thrown that suit out. The stench of pond water had been horrific. On the tablet screen, as Jim slogs his way out of the park's pond, the dog is barking wildly at the water's edge. The owner finally catches up to the dog and leashes it. He appears to be apologizing profusely to Kirk.

Kevin makes a noise and shoves a fist against his mouth to cover it up. Jim glares at him, handing the tablet back. "It's not funny."

Kevin is too stupid to live apparently. "But it's a terrier, sir!" He cups his hands together. "So small! That's what's so funny about—" Riley shuts up.

Jim turns away. He's going to sue the person who filmed that!

"Uh," the intern says, eyeing Jim's thunderous expression, "can I go now?"

Jim waves him away.

Riley starts to edge toward a side table, but pauses to ask, "Are you—you aren't going to do anything, sir?"

"What can I do?" he retorts, already planning to bombard the administrators of youtube with threats of lawsuits if they don't take that video down.

"It's just, I mean, usually you do something back when, um, never mind, Mr. Spock is glaring, er, I think I'm about to get fired..." Kevin trails off.

Jim stills, hardly daring to breathe. Then he comes alive again, whirls on Riley, disbelief etched on his face. "McCoy?" He snatches the tablet back before Kevin can move and skims the comments. "Fuck," he says, " _McCoy did this?_ "

The tablet is taken out of his hands by the studio manager, namely his closest friend Spock. Jim looks at Spock, jaw ticking. "Where's that script?"

"Jim..." The manager looks grim.

"The script," Jim says darkly. "The script can be changed. Riley!"

Kevin's eyes widen.

"Find me something on McCoy, something... _heinous_." Kirk smiles, and Kevin looks like he might wet his pants. "Give it to Sulu by airing time. He'll take care of the rest."

"Yes, sir."

"The producers are not happy," Spock tells Jim once Riley is gone.

"I don't care."

"Jim, one day this... war will go too far."

"When the viewer ratings start to drop, I'll stop." Jim knows that will never happen. America _loves_ this rivalry between the two most popular late-night show hosts. No, he's not backing down until Leonard McCoy does. Until the man begs and _grovels_ for Jim to stop.

Reaching out, he clasps a hand on Spock's shoulder. "Let's look at that script now. I'll only need a three-minute slot for my revenge."

Though Spock appears pained, he replies, "I anticipated as much last night once McCoy aired the clip."

That gives Jim pause. It's with slight jealousy that he says, "You watch his show?"

"Someone must," Spock's tone is dry, "for research purposes. McCoy has been in the lead for the last sixteen days."

Jim isn't certain if he should believe the man's explanation, but he knows in his heart that Spock is too loyal to betray him. Kirk's mood improves as he imagines all of the possibilities tonight might bring. "Bones is about to feel the pain of defeat. We'll be in first place by the end of the night, mark my words, Spock!"

"I have no doubt you can accomplish this if you set your mind to it, Jim."

"Excellent," Jim remarks good-naturedly. "You know I couldn't pull this show off without you."

"Indeed. That is why my salary is higher than yours."

"Wait, what?"

~~~

"Sir," Leonard's assistant says, "I have some news."

"What is it?" Leonard asks, then in the same breath snaps at the stylist, "You are not putting that stuff in my hair!"

Uhura narrows her eyes at him. "Len, if I don't use gel, you're going to have a cowlick the size of Montana."

"I'm not Kirk. I don't make money based on my looks," McCoy bitches but folds his arms and allows her to proceed with fixing his hair.

"Don't kid yourself," his hair stylist/make-up artist/all-around-person-who-makes-him-look-decent-on-camera counters. "Half of your audience is waiting for you to drop a pen so they can watch you bend over."

"Oh my god," he says, feeling his face grow hot. "Please don't tell me that. I like to live in ignorance." Then he remembers his assistant. "What's the news, Pavel?"

"Mr. Kirk is planning revenge, sir."

Leonard thumps his fist against the chair arm and grins. "I knew it! Well?" he prompts impatiently.

Pavel shares his grin. "I planted ze decoy as instructed."

"Good job, kid."

The young man beams. "Thank you!"

"How'd you do it?"

Color rises in Pavel's face. " I know one of his staff."

Leonard is impressed. "You have an inside man? Damn, Pavel, I'd never take you for the deceitful type."

"There is no deceit!" Chekov assures him hurriedly. "I only talk to Hikaru sometimes. It was an intern who came to me. He practically begged for something to make you look bad."

"I see." Leonard practices his smug look in the mirror. Uhura huffs and grabs his chin to hold his head still while she sprays his hair. "And you gave it to him, the poor fool. Make sure you record Kirk's show for me. I want to watch his face when we hack into his system and put that park vid on a loop. Damn, but that made my week! Jim screams like a girl." He chuckles deeply.

When Chekov has left to finish preparing the set for that night's show and check in with their live guest, Uhura puts down the blow-dryer. "You know you have a problem, Leonard, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies indignantly.

"Making fun of somebody on tv is not the best way to flirt with him."

Leonard sputters. "F-Flirt?! I'm not flirting."

"Yes, you are. And you suck at it."

"Fuck you, Nyota. Jim is the one who flirts, and badly too! What kind of nickname is Bones? People freakin' blog about me as _Bones_ , thanks to him!" He jerks at the collar of his dress shirt in agitation.

"Whatever," his friend scoffs. "Stop scowling. It creases the foundation." She continues her work in silence, leaving Leonard to fume at his reflection.

~~~

"Some people have joked that we're flirting," an elegantly dressed McCoy tells a news reporter three weeks later when she catches him at an awards ceremony and asks about his longstanding rivalry with James Kirk. Leonard smiles at the camera. "But we're just two guys poking fun at each other. Neither of us takes it seriously."

"Really?" the news reporter replies, sounding sly. "Then do you deny any knowledge of that photo Mr. Kirk released of the two of you together..." She pauses. "...in what appears to be an intimate embrace at Donald Trump's New Year's Eve Party? Jim said to the press, and I quote," she reads from her notepad, "' _Does this count as a kiss-and-tell?_ "

Leonard's mouth drops open. Somewhere in the crowd of onlookers, Pavel's eyes go wide and he whispers to Sulu, "Please do not tell him I took that picture! I was drunk! Oh, no, this is terrible—how did Mr. Kirk find it?"

On camera, McCoy explodes. "JIM! YOU SON OF A BITCH, I WILL GET YOU!"

"And the rivalry continues," the red-headed news reporter tells her viewers at home. "...Or should I say the love affair? This is Gaila, always bringing you the latest celebrity gossip straight from the stars themselves. Oh, and who else do I spy on the red carpet tonight? It's Hollywood's favorite silver fox—Mr. Christopher Pike." She motions for the camera man to follow her. At her back, Leonard is still ranting like a crazed man. "Oh, Chris! Chris, don't you look stunning! I'll only need a moment of your time..."

_-Fini_


	37. An Intergalactic Fandom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Kirk is appreciated by many, far and wide.

It's a simple fact, really. The people who know Jim personally love him. Then there are those who do not know him personally in the least and love him even more.

~~~

_Is that really him? I think that's really him!_

_How would I know?_

_Zaaaekbehd! Why did you switch the channel?_

_There is nothing interesting about those creatures._

_Put it back nowww! I was watching!_

_Your mind is filled with nonsense._

Outraged squawks and squabbling ensues. Somewhere in the galaxy, a ship wobbles in space. Then, _Fine! Watch the stupid humans! I am leaving._

There comes a loud screech of glee, that which could surely be heard across the Beta quadrant if sound waves could travel through space. It goes like this: "Eeeeeeeeeee! It's CAPTAIN KIRK!"

~~~

The tables and chairs of a small bookshop in Riverside, Iowa are overflowing. The manager—not a native to Riverside but a man who saw lucrative opportunity in a small town—couldn't be more pleased. Even if no one is buying from the inventory of intergalactic literature he invested in for the year, the built-in cafe is running out of coffee cups and snacks. Happily, he has sent two harried employees to fetch more foodstuff to sell.

Today is the renowned Celebration of Life of one James Tiberius Kirk, e.g. the birthday of the most famous starship captain from planet Earth. That he is also young and handsome and considered virile by many, many housewives through the Federation is simply a point in Kirk's favor.

And the manager's—especially since he had that mural painted on the wall to immortalize the Captain's face. A skirmish almost broke earlier as the females vied for a prized seat next to that wall.

Catching the arm of another employee, one who looks near to tears, the manager demands, "Are they ready yet?"

"Yes, Mr. Mudd," the employee replies meekly.

"Good, good. Bring them in. Our customers are waiting!"

The employee scurries away to do the bidding of his boss. In great cheer, Mudd announces to the large group of people, "Ladies, ladies, welcome to the Riverside's own Jim Kirk cafe! Our databases have the latest on everything Kirk! Please allow me to remind you there is, for today only," he says in a tantalizing tone, "a 25% sale on the Captain feature edition of Raunchy Rebels, brought to you by the successors of Earth's famous entertainment line Hefner Intergalactic! On that note, you know what it's time for..." He allows for a momentary pause, smiling. A door appears in the Kirk mural wall. Mudd throws his arm out, crying, "...the best part of the evening, PICK THAT KIRK!"

The room fills with applause and cheers and whistles. The male models, all blond, blue-eyed and well-toned (by whatever medical enhancement necessary), stream out into the bookstore, strutting for all they are worth. Each one wears a different outfit as once seen on Jim Kirk. One of the males looks spectacularly like Jim in the face, and Harry decides this model will be a top runner of the contest. At least until the swimsuit round. Then the ladies are always very particular in what catches their fancy.

He strokes his mustache and grins. Time to break out the holocams for sale—at a discounted price, of course!

~~~

In the dingy side-street of the crowded pleasure-planet Risa a robed arm extends, revealing a feminine hand. The greenish tint of the skin might mean the female is Orion, but no one quite knows. The rest of her figure is hidden in black shroud-like attire. Delicate fingers pick up a small device. The screen wavers and flickers as it comes to life.

"Is this all you have?"

The stall owner, an ex-pirate of one of the meaner species of the galaxy, gives her a toothy smile. "Is all. Good quality. You buy, lady."

"If this is your definition of good, I would hate to see what you call excellent." She places the device back on the stall's tabletop. "I was told you had... more satisfying product."

The stall owner looks around them, head swiveling back and forth, before he leans in to ask quietly, "And what would please the lady?" He flashes another grin, two of his four eyes fixed on the swell of her bosom.

"I like art. _Well-sculpted_ art," she stresses. When he doesn't respond, the woman slaps a handful of credits on the table and snaps, "Well, stop gawking!"

His attention is immediately riveted to the money. But she doesn't remove her hand from it until he grudgingly unearths a box from beneath his table and offers it to her.

"Hm," she murmurs, peering into it. Then she lifts something out. "Oooh, I haven't seen this one. When was it taken?"

"Is new. Lady will buy. _Excellent_ quality."

"He surely is," she says, admiring the picture. "Who knew humans had such pleasant shapes?"

The trader snorts. "Five hundred credits."

She tosses the picture back into the box like it's trash.

"Four-fifty!" calls the stall owner as his customer turns to walk away.

"Three hundred credits."

"You rob me. Four hundred. I have hungry little ones!"

"You have _little_ brains. Your kind doesn't procreate."

"Bah!"

"Three hundred credits," she insists. "I've seen better."

His expression turns crafty. "Ah... but not this, I think." He pulls something from inside his jacket pocket and teases her with a glance of it. "You like art, yes? Here is _art_ for the lady."

The woman visibly stills beneath her robe. "Is that...?"

"Federation captain. Fornicating. Is _most_ excellent, yes?"

"Oh," she says with a soft gasp, reaching for the item.

He pulls it out of her reach. "Five hundred."

The customer is silent for some seconds. "Four hundred."

"Four-fifty for best captain in galaxy."

She is already slipping the money into his hand. Cradling her new purchase, she asks, "Do you have more?"

"Alas, is rare. But lady not wait long. Is said captain come back soon. More art, after."

"Yes," she agrees, sounding satisfied, "I shall certainly look forward to that."

When she is gone, having disappeared quickly into the traffic of the street, the stall owner grins and tucks a duplicate of the prized "art" inside his jacket for the next Kirk enthusiast to come along.

_-Fini_


	38. Playing Life to Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris P. in a suit always gives me strange ideas. Jim meets an opponent he would like to play.

It's all about the look. Any proper con artist will tell you that. You can't be too suave, and you can't be too wholesome. A handsome face helps, of course, and perhaps more so if offset by something every day, average, like a pair of black-frame glasses.

Jim adjusts his spectacles and does a quick survey of the crowd as he pretends to drop a pen and retrieve it. He doesn't have time for more than one mark tonight, so he'll have to be judicious in his choice.

A redhead at a nearby table, ignoring the dinner companion seated opposite her, gives him an inviting smile and purposefully caresses the swell of her cleavage with the tip of her finger. She's looking for a mark, too, but with a different kind of game plan in mind. Jim can't fault her for that. If his need wasn't urgent, he might be willing to indulge her game.

Then he sees the one: alone at the bar, the set of the shoulders indicating dismay and a little bit of tension. The cut of the clothes is delicate, expensive, sporting a sheen of newness; even the footwear is without scuff marks and would be worth a pretty penny. All clean lines and elegance trying to cover up the hallmarks of the harried life. Tonight, it seems, must be a break from the norm.

Jim picks up his untouched drink and slips across the smoky room, settling onto a bar stool three seats down so that the mark doesn't feel crowded and, more importantly, does not feel as though someone is watching. A con can go south quickly if the mark is already suspicious.

Kirk knows he blends in well with this crowd of restaurant patrons. He doesn't look poor, but he doesn't look extravagantly rich either. The eyeglasses say he isn't the perfect specimen, and the loose dark gray scarf at his neck, draped haphazardly to contrast with the immaculate, tailored look of his light gray suit jacket and white shirt (left unbuttoned at the top, no tie, but bearing cufflinks) hints to an observer he isn't afraid to the bend the rules of the unspoken but understood socialite code of dress in order to please himself. All in all, coupled with the right kind of smile, at first glance Jim is the picture of a decent fellow, of a possible marriage candidate (women always notice the lack of a wedding band on his left hand), and likely the kind of person who has no ulterior motive.

Or so it should seem during the initial impression.

He takes a swallow of watered-down scotch and contemplates how he is going to catch the mark's attention. The body language has poise but it's under a tight leash. A direct approach such as flirting, the buy-the-mark-a-drink scheme, would be a poor choice. Jim uses the reflection in the mirrored wall of the bar to surreptitiously study the way one of the mark's fingers taps a steady rhythm against a tall wine glass, one-third of its contents already drained. Without the tell, the mark could be spending a night indulging a drinking habit or on the prowl for some late-night fun like the redhead.

But she's waiting for someone.

Suddenly the mark shifts her position in her chair, reminiscent, Jim imagines, of prey in the wild tensing at a change of scent on the wind when a predator is near. It is a subconscious nervousness born of an innate instinct, despite that years of society have worn down the urge to shy away in humans. For people like Jim—the grifters and the players, those called the confidence men—dulled instincts are the reason they are so successful at their business.

If Jim hadn't dropped out of school at the age of seventeen, he figures he could have spent some time studying human nature in a prestigious college. As it stands, though, the lack of education doesn't hinder his ability to read people. He can read them better than most. He has to; otherwise working somebody would be like a blind man trying to play poker.

Jim drains the rest of his scotch and orders a gin and tonic partly to keep the bartender occupied and partly to set the stage for his introduction to the mark. Then he stands up, shifting just enough to catch the mark's attention. Her gaze follows him as he passes her by, tracking his progress toward a nearby restaurant employee. Silently he congratulates himself on a perfect first hook. (Small or big, a con is always a matter of pride.)

Jim asks the hostess if the restaurant has received a call concerning his party of two, projecting his voice without making it seem like he is talking loudly. The conversation will carry back to the bar for anyone who may be listening, hopefully his mark.

"What's your name, sir?" the young woman asks.

"Cartwright," Jim tells her, "Jim Cartwright." The hostess flags the maître-d for information on the evening's reservations.

It's not his real name, of course. No grifter goes by an identity that can be traced back to him; but the skilled and arrogant con man uses the touch of truth in his game, too. A con which is built on all lies, Jim believes, folds as easily as a house of cards. The foundation has to be made of something other than air, someone once told him.

He was born James so he uses Jim as his first name. Cartwright is the last name of a mark from a long-ago big score—his first one. Years later, word on the street is Cartwright still has a price on his head.

Jim couldn't care less. Cartwright has no right to be upset. The man was already embezzling millions of dollars from his company, and Jim only lightened his load by a few hundred grand. But even crooks hate to be conned, though they're some of the easiest marks because they are too busy cheating others to realize they are a victim of a scam themselves.

The hostess returns to a hopeful-looking Jim, shaking her head. The hope in Jim's face dies. He makes a show of checking his watch and scanning the crowd of incoming patrons. "Damn," he mutters, sounding heartfelt, and runs fingers through his short hair.

The hostess is endearingly sympathetic. She promises to alert him immediately if the other half of his party arrives or contacts the establishment. Jim thanks her and stuffs his hands into his pants pockets, trailing back to the bar. His arrival is well-timed: the bartender is done mixing the gin and tonic (the gin bottles are kept nearest the mark, which is why he choose it). Jim lifts a hand to beckon for the drink as if he cannot wait until he returns to his seat to have it. Then he slugs back part of the liquor in one gulp and leans against the counter, steadying himself.

"You want another one?" the bartender asks, eyeing him with an expression that says he hopes Jim is an alcoholic and a big tipper.

Jim hesitates, playing at considering it, but shakes his head. The bartender is disappointed. Sliding the rest of the gin and tonic back toward the young man, Jim says, a hint of misery in his voice, "Pitch that, will you, and just give me the check." He glances at his watch and sighs through his nose. "I think I've been stood up."

The bartender mutters something about tough luck and sweeps the glass away. Hopefully he will be disappointed enough to take his time putting together the bill. Otherwise, Jim will have to improvise and stall.

But contrary to the bartender's belief, luck is on Jim's side tonight. The mark, who had fixed her attention on her wine glass when Jim reached for his drink, turns to look directly at him. Her voice is soft as she says, "It seems it's a night for being stood up."

Jim gives her a startled look. "You too?"

"Yes."

"I'm truly sorry then," he tells her. "I wouldn't want anyone to know what a wretched feeling it causes."

The mark lifts her chin slightly (she chooses brazen, that will be useful later on, thinks Jim) and leans toward him, offering her hand. "Jocelyn Darnell," she introduces herself.

"James Cartwright," Jim returns amiably, shaking her hand rather than kissing the back of it. This woman is looking for honesty, not a charmer.

"Mr. Cartwright, may I buy you a drink?" Jocelyn asks, only to add quickly, "As consolation."

"Jim, please. Mr. Cartwright was my father. Unfortunately, Ms. Darnell, I have already had more than my fair share of drinks tonight. But—" He smiles. "—allow me to buy you another glass of wine, and you can commiserate for the both of us."

"You can call me Joss, Jim."

Jim leans across the counter, catching the bartender's attention once again and asking him to give the lady another Merlot.

Jocelyn is surprised. "How did you know I'm drinking Merlot?"

"The color," he tells her.

"Oh, are you a wine connoisseur?"

"Not a connoisseur" is his humble reply. "It's just a... hobby." In actuality, he perused the label of the wine bottle nearest her and took a gamble. Jim loves it when those gambles pay off. He hopes his next gamble is lucrative, too. "So, Joss, who is the idiot that left a lovely woman all by herself?"

"My—" Jocelyn pauses. "Someone I'm seeing."

She wouldn't meet a husband without her wedding ring on; thus Jim deduces Jocelyn is not certain how to label this particular someone, not even as a boyfriend. Lovers, no doubt, but probably casually so. The lack of deep romantic attachment is a relief for Jim. He has broken up a couple or two in the process of landing a score, but it never sits entirely right with him afterward. Well, the ruining-young-love part, not the stealing part, that is.

"He might be caught in traffic," Jim offers, donning the role of the good guy with ease.

She shakes her head. "No, I think I should have seen this coming. He's in a line of work that means he works long hours. Tonight was his time off—or should have been." She glances away. "I could call his pager, I suppose."

No dishonesty in the body language, only hesitation. She's been stood up before by this person.

Perfect.

Jim lowers himself onto the bar stool beside her. They watch in silence as the bartender refills her glass of wine. Jocelyn swirls it before taking a small sip. He unwinds his scarf and places beside him on the counter and then plants his elbows. Jocelyn's eyes linger on the exposed hollow of his throat, track along the open vee of his shirt, before she averts her eyes and sips at her wine again.

Now he has not only caught her curiosity, but her interest as well. Phase two can commence: make the mark feel comfortable.

The bartender places the bill for Jim's drinks—plus the wine—at the counter's edge. Jim pulls out his wallet, chooses the credit card using the alias of Jim Cartwright and slips it into the pocket of the bill holder with its end showing his last name, Cartwright, sticking out. A quick glance in the mirror confirms Jocelyn looks at it.

Start by confirming identity. Check. Jim congratulates himself.

Jocelyn glances at him. "Jim," she asks, "what do you do?"

Wallet still in his hand, he extricates a business card and hands it to her.

She reads his job title. "Financial analyst?"

He grins a little. "Boring, right?"

"Oh, oh no," the mark assures him. "I'm just not certain what a financial analyst does."

Jim has a good spin on that. But before he can tell it and thereby coax her into laughter (and into a more relaxed state), a displeased man's voice interrupts him.

"Joss, what's this?"

Jocelyn gives a small gasp and, looking over Jim's shoulder, stiffens. "Leonard!"

For a moment, just a tiny second of one, Jim's fingers curl against the bar counter. (Fuck. _Fuck_.) When he turns to look at the mark's thither-to errant lover, however, his posture is casual and unconcerned. After all, he is a nice guy having a nice chat with a sympathetic party.

Jocelyn recovers from her surprise quickly, not abashed and not looking as if she has a moment's guilt over talking to a handsome stranger. "Leonard, this is Jim Cartwright. Jim, this is Dr. Leonard McCoy, the man I was telling you about."

So, she has a touch of the con in her too. Jim can be appreciative of a fellow player but he is too dismayed by the turn of events for his mood to lighten. He offers the man his hand. "Dr. McCoy. Nice to meet you."

Oh, the suspicion in those eyes. The face gives none of it away though, nor the tone of voice.

"How do you do?" the dark-haired man asks politely. He has an accent.

Something off, not quite right. Jim follows his gut instinct and asks, to hear the man speak again, "What kind of doctor are you?"

"I'm a cardiologist," Leonard McCoy answers, moving to stand beside Jocelyn and placing a hand on her shoulder. "And yourself, Mr. Cartwright?"

Jim ignores the subtle display of territoriality. The accent is Southern, no doubt, close to flawless. Except for the way he drags out a particular vowel. Most people wouldn't notice the slip.

Jim, being well-practiced at this kind of art, does.

Other details stand out to him, then, like neon signs: the fingernails, a millimeter too long; the hair curling over the ears, too unprofessional; and the smell, free of years' worth of story. Only the darkened fingertips of Leonard's thumb and forefinger say something about him that Jim can easily discern as truth: that the man is a smoker, probably one who has recently quit.

But he is not a doctor, and never has been.

Jim is intrigued.

"Jim's a financial analyst," Jocelyn answers for her new acquaintance.

"Ah," McCoy says, noncommittal, eyes studying Jim.

Jim leans back, matching the look with a challenging gaze of his own. "Ms. Darnell and I have something in common. Both our dates are late." His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement. "Well, in my case, my date is a no-show."

Leonard turns to Jocelyn, as any chagrined boyfriend would. "I'm sorry, darlin'. I meant to get out early but the hospital called up with a new case. Can you forgive me?" He leans in to kiss her cheek, a perfectly gentleman move in front of company.

"Which hospital?" Jim inquiries.

"The Memorial downtown."

"So you're employed by the hospital."

"Oh, no," Jocelyn says. "Leonard has his own clinic."

"Really? Maybe I know it," Jim lies smoothly, watching a muscle spasm in Leonard's cheek. The man should not grind his teeth; it's such a blatant tell. "Unfortunately, my aunt was diagnosed with a heart condition a couple of years ago. It took her a long time before she settled on a cardiologist she thought she could trust. Family skepticism in modern medicine, you see," he adds with a bit of impish flare.

"I doubt you know my clinic, Mr. Cartwright. It opened a few months ago."

"Jim," he corrects. "Too bad about that, Doc, I bet your practice would be a perfect fit for my aunt. Hey, just to make things easy on me—I'm terrible with last names, sorry—can I call you Leonard?"

They stare at each other.

Jocelyn slips out from under McCoy's hand, clutching her black handbag. "I need to use the lady's room. Leonard, will you wait?" Maybe she hopes the tension will resolve itself while she is gone to check her makeup.

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart, promise," McCoy drawls silkily.

Jim waits until Jocelyn is out of sight before saying, "Lay it on any thicker, and you could wind up with a wife and kids."

"Not happening," the dark-haired man replies.

At least they aren't going to keep up the pretense. "So," Jim prompts, curious, "what's the score? A free ride to Vegas? A trust fund?"

"I could ask you the same, kid, but I think I'd rather not know. You're gonna have to move on. Darnell is taken."

"I see. The town's not big enough for the both of us." He chuckles and rises from his seat. "I could tell her, you know, about the fake medical license. Or just plant a seed of doubt."

McCoy's eyes narrow. "You won't."

Jim grins. "Won't I?"

"No, because if you know what's good for you, you will walk out of this restaurant and not come back. I know who you are, Jim... Kirk."

Jim's grin dies.

McCoy presses on like they are having a casual conversation over a cup of tea, his Southern accent melting away into a distant twang as he slips his hands into his trouser pockets. "I bet I'd make a lot more off of you than I would Joss. I hear even a tiny bit of information on your whereabouts has a big pay-off." The man's mouth tips up at one corner. "I wouldn't have made the connection, you know, if you hadn't used that last name, Mr. _Cartwright_. That was pretty damn stupid of you." He pauses. "Or arrogant. Probably both in your case, if what I've heard about you isn't all bluster and long tales."

Jim sees the bartender turn from another customer at the opposite end of the bar and glance in their direction. He shifts until he is close enough to McCoy so that they won't be overheard. "You rat me out," he tells the man, "and you'll regret it."

"Then don't make me rat you out, kid. Be smart, walk away."

Jim picks up his scarf, shoving it into one of the pockets of his suit, then lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender, his cocky grin returning. "Fine, you win. I'm out."

Jim is on his way to the exit, ignoring the bartender's "Sir, your card!" (which is nearing its limit anyway; the real Jim Cartwright will hate that when he gets the bill next month) when McCoy calls his name. He looks over his shoulder, willing to hear a last word because despite their tete-a-tete, he still finds McCoy (or whoever this guy is) intriguing.

"Just a word to the wise, since you've been... gone for a while," the other con man says. On the lam, running his scams to the Eastern Seaboard and back, he means, and wouldn't be wrong. "It _is_ my town now, at least this side of it. Stick to the docks, and we won't have a problem."

"And if I don't?" Jim challenges.

Leonard's eyes sweep over him, unimpressed. "I'm not looking for a partner or an insideman, Jim. Use your imagination as to how you would end up." Then McCoy turns to the bar, lifting his mark's glass and swallows some of the wine. It's a clear dismissal.

Partners, Jim thinks. That's not such a bad idea. He hasn't had a partner since Gary and the dice games down in Louisiana. But that went to shit, didn't it? Such a shame, really, because Gary had the best controlled roll Jim had ever seen.

He leaves the restaurant without another word, whistling and removing his eyeglasses as he goes. The hostess looks confused when he winks at her on the way out of the door.

He can stay down at the docks for a few days, giving the appearance of obedience, and then come back when he has a workable plan.

How much would it take to con McCoy?

Jim grins to himself, more than willing to find out.

_-Fini_


	39. The Light In Which We're Cast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysterious little piece about knowing ourselves—or rather, Jim and Bones knowing each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am retiring the J 'N B Series at 40 entries. This is #39, so there will be only one entry left to write. That said, I am thankful for the attention these short stories have received over the last year and eight months. I hope some part of this has entertained you immensely, at least once, and that you will take away a fondness for Jim and Bones (and others), as well as an appreciation for how versatile their roles can be, though the core of who Jim and Bones are always remains the same.

He first fell in love with an idea. The light would hit the side of the face _just so_ : outlining the plane of the jaw, hinting at the serious line of the nose and touching lightly upon the curve of the upper lip. Then the man would shift, turning his face back into the darkness so that the only bright part of him is the long line from neck to shoulder. That is how the character enters the stage, walks into the life McCoy's imagination has created solely for him and begins to live it the audience, who has been already ensorcelled by the character's presence long before the first word of the opening monologue is spoken.

Leonard works day and night on nurturing this idea. He dreams about it when he isn't writing it, and he sees his vision in every person passing on the street: in the way a delivery boy leaps off his bike with a package under his arm; the business man steps around a puddle to preserve his leather shoes; or in the gentleness with which the old man at a bus bench feeds a small flock of fat white-breasted pigeons. Between bouts of worrying a pencil between his teeth, he tries to capture all of the nuances that make fiction kindred to real life.

The character could be the guy next door; maybe on a bad day he is the man from which people avert their eyes in passing. So many details to choose from, to give the creation, and methodically Leonard goes through them, one by one, until he finds what fits.

But the face is still hidden in the darkness, turned from the light. Even as Leonard finishes the last part of his script and hands it to an old friend, a theater director, for review, he knows nothing of the character's features and how the man looks; Leonard does not know if his lips thin when he feels anger, or what is the shade of his eyes during the scene where he meets the person who is going to change his life.

He worries about the lack of knowing all throughout the script revisions; he thinks about it during the construction of the stage sets (which management lets him give his opinion on after much convincing). Then the day of the casting call arrives, and Leonard can only sink into his flimsy folding chair, fingers tight on the bound copy of what he believes will be his most important piece in his career (not to mention his last), and simply holds his breath.

By the second hour, the worry is gone, replaced by a deep frustration.

"No, not him," he bites out when the director glances speculatively his way, probably to judge his expression.

The director sighs and waves at the casting manager to send in the next actor. Then he turns to face Leonard and says in exasperation, "McCoy, we have only two more left on the list. _Two_ more. Then the audition's over. I know this isn't the Hollywood setup you're used to, but don't forget how limited we are by our production funds."

Leonard would have nodded his understanding, if only to appease his friend, but he finds himself rising from his chair without a second's thought for a lecture he's heard time and time again since the process began.

The actor who is walking across the stage, stride long and easy, freezes at the sight of Leonard's swift approach. The young man opens his mouth slightly, only to close it a moment later with a click, as Leonard grabs his face and twists his head to a new angle.

The light... no, the _position_ is wrong.

"Move to the left," Leonard orders.

The guy shuffles two steps to the side, perhaps too struck by Leonard's forcefulness to protest.

An annoyed sigh explodes from Leonard. " _Your_ left, damn it!" he snaps, and drags the actor in the other direction. "Finally," he mutters immediately after, a tension in him uncoiling as the back light of the stage properly frames the young man's head.

Leonard's eyebrows draw together as he stares up into that bright halo of light, wondering how every person he meets can have the wrong face when not even he, the creator, knows what the face should look like. But that tiny, insistent voice in his head never lies to him. When the voice's no is so vehement, he has to believe it.

"If you let go of my face, I can read my lines now," a quiet voice tells him.

Leonard feels himself twitch in surprise, surfacing from his thoughts back to where he is—

—standing on the stage like a lunatic, cupping a man's jaw in one of his broad hands. Leonard backs away, embarrassed, and averts his eyes, an apology springing to his lips but not past them. A hand drops to his shoulder from behind; it's the director, come to intervene with "You should take your seat, McCoy."

Leonard nods, a gruff acknowledgement and less of an _I'm sorry_ to the vicinity of the actor he manhandled, and hurries back to the safety of his chair away from the stage

"My apologies... Kirk, is it? That was the playwright of our production. He... was making a point to me about a scene," Leonard hears the director explaining in an attempt to cover for the impulsive—and unwarrantedly intimate—behavior.

"Yes, sir, it's James Kirk. Just call me Jim. And," the actor pauses, "there's no problem here."

"Good. Welcome, Jim. Let me get out of your way. Then you can begin what you've prepared."

Leonard sinks farther into his chair, folding his arms. The good thing is, he decides as the man named Jim starts in on a piece of Shakespeare, something is finally right in this damnable audition. Jim stays in the spot Leonard put him in without looking awkward about it. Unfortunately the angle of the actor's stance is so perfectly matched to what Leonard imagined, the stage light hides Jim's face in shadow as if he is the very character for whom Leonard has been unable to discern a true identity since first putting words to paper.

~~~

The last actor is the best; even Leonard has to admit so, if grudgingly, despite that something tells him Mitchell still isn't right person for the part. But low production funds, as management had so aptly hammered into his brain, cannot cater to his intuition at every turn or they'll be without a main character and, therefore, no show to run.

"Who's going to be the understudy?" Leonard asks the director as they and a few others of the team sit at a long table and sort through acting dossiers.

The director picks up a piece of paper. "I liked Kirk. He's inexperienced but..."

"...but he's got the raw talent to carry him through if we need him in a pinch," Leonard finishes. "I agree."

Others echo the sentiment.

It's settled, then. They'll extend an offer to Mitchell, and bring Kirk in to work alongside him.

Leonard shoves fingers through his unkempt hair and sighs, letting his co-workers' voices drift into meaningless noise in the background. This has to work out, he tells himself, or he's leaving behind this business in the worst way possible: with a tiny whimper, and not a single grand bang in sight.

~~~

Two weeks into rehearsals, a cup of coffee appears in Leonard's periphery. He takes it without thinking, grunting his thanks to the stagehand that makes the morning coffee run. But it's not the usual stagehand, he realizes a moment later as someone different leans against the empty chair to his right. It's the understudy who has been following him around puppy-like and whom Leonard can't seem to get rid of.

"So what's he doing wrong?" Jim Kirk asks, watching the stage.

Leonard slouches into his seat. "Shouldn't you be memorizing lines or something?"

"What is Gary doing wrong?" the understudy repeats with a stubborn-streak Leonard is coming to know well.

"Don't know what you're talking about, kid." He sips coffee surprised that it's black, just as he likes it rather than the latte crap he normally gets handed. Frothy coffee concoctions—what is the world coming to?

"You look like you want to throw your script at his head, Bones. So he must be doing something wrong."

"I told you, don't call me that."

"Is it the delivery? Can't be," Jim says, shaking his head at his own supposition and acting as if Leonard hadn't spoken. "The delivery is pretty good."

Leonard thwaps a hand against the script in his lap and grouses, "It's just _wrong_. Now go away."

The young man's gaze lingers on him longer than necessary. Leonard knows if he turns to look he will see eyes the color of a cloudless sky. His fingers twitch for a pencil to capture his string of thoughts. Instead, he fixes his attention in another direction, at the wildly gesticulating woman standing next to the director, Mitchell's busty redhead co-star, and wishes Jim would stop pitying him for being a friendless bastard and stay the hell away.

"Well, let me know when you figure out what's wrong" is all Jim says before suddenly disappearing from the corner of Leonard's eye.

 _If I knew, I'd tell this whole damn crew_ , Leonard thinks to himself unhappily. He swallows a mouthful of the rich black coffee and flips open the script to the current scene, jotting down notes as they come to mind. Later, he emerges from a long stupor to the sight of an empty paper cup crumpled in his hand and, magically scrawled along the length of a page margin, a list of traits about the main character he never considered before.

He reads the list through twice and thinks at the end, _You're not who I thought you were_.

~~~

A long day has run into an even longer night, and at the end of it Leonard finds himself a poorly padded bench and lays there with a sigh of relief. He throws an arm over his eyes, grateful for the silence of the theater now that the cast and crews are gone.

It's a peace not meant to last, he learns in short order.

"Hello?" a voice calls cautiously out of the dark of the dressing room. "Oh, hey... is that you, Bones?"

Leonard rolls onto a side, putting his back to the voice. "Go home, kid."

Footsteps. The door leading to the hallway clicks shut. Floorboards creak with the shifting of body weight. "Why aren't you going home too?"

It's inevitable Jim Kirk should be this curious. "I am home," Leonard tells him. "I have to live where I work, or the work doesn't get done."

And a fickle muse will take flight at the first opportunity it has. Leonard has experienced that the hard way; it's what put him on this path more than a year ago, when he couldn't turn a good idea into a lucrative venture and it just kept happening, again and again.

"I don't think you're literally supposed to do that," the nosy Kirk says. "Do you need a ride? I can take you to your house."

Oh, the aggravation of this one. "Look, if I damn well want to sleep here, I will!"

Silence. Then, "So you don't have a place to go."

Caught. But Leonard isn't about to admit it to such a foolish young man.

"But... you're famous," Jim says, as if he is puzzling out a problem. "When I visit my mom in L.A., we always go to one of your plays."

"Quicker to rise, quicker to fall. What I'm doing in this little two-bit town is the last thing the entertainment business will ever get outta me."

Jim's "Oh" is quiet, disappointed.

It kind of breaks Leonard's heart. Something occurs to him, then, as he recalls Jim's casual remark. "A Passing of Bones," he says, tears unexpectedly stinging his eyes. One of his earlier works, that play, seeming so distant in his memory he almost can't recall writing it or seeing it to come to life on the stage.

"The first one I ever saw," murmurs Jim. "I loved it."

"Why?" Leonard asks, incapable of letting go now that he knows why he is Bones. He turns over onto his back on the bench, but the room is too dark to see more than an outline of Kirk by the door.

After a minute of silence he thinks Jim isn't going to answer but then he hears, "I wanted to be that guy, Sam. I wanted to be him so badly... sometimes I think that's why I'm here."

"In acting, you mean," surmises Leonard.

Jim hesitates before he agrees. "Yeah."

"Sam's not real," Leonard tells Kirk, the words blunt but his voice not unkind. "I made him up."

"But you made him to do things we never can. You made him so selfless—forgiving."

There was truth to that, Leonard thinks. He almost asks, _Who do you need to forgive, Jim?_ but decides against it. Instead, he allows silence to stretch between them, hoping Jim will realize that's the clue to leave Leonard to his own miserable existence.

"...Bones," the voice comes out of the dark again, softer, close to a whisper, rather than going away. "I could stay."

"I don't plan to give you a reason to," he replies. "Go home, Jim."

Leonard is mildly surprised that Jim listens. As the dressing room opens enough for the young man to slip through it, Leonard turns his head in time to catch the dim glow of the hallway lights spilling into the room. For an instant, he sees a face, a pale mask born out of the darkness.

The line of the jaw is hardened with resolve, maybe with desperation, too, or just a desperate kind of unhappiness; the slant of the mouth is weary. So this is what the man truly looks like.

"Wait," he calls to the kid, "wait!"

In the doorway Jim turns, the irises of his eyes eerily pale.

"What do you want most?" Leonard questions.

"To be remade."

He shakes his head. "I can't do that. I don't have that power—not in real life."

"Then you aren't who I thought you were," Jim murmurs softly.

The door is left ajar in his wake, and the darkness has completely scattered. Leonard cannot look away from the objects in the room, the structure of it, now that he can see.

"None of us are, Jim," he whispers. With that truth as companion, he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

In his dream Leonard chases after an elusive man, a creation that he could never truly understand, and wakes to a new realization: the mysterious character has never known himself. In that, they are the same.

_-Fini_


	40. Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janice is still working at Kirk Enterprises and today is no less crazy than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about the best way to complete the J 'N B Series and realized circling back to where it began was more than appropriate, particularly since I left Janice in a position that needs rectifying.

" _Janice_."

The smooth, sexy masculine voice says her name just like in her fantasies—only it's broad daylight, she's at her job and, well, not exactly _working_ like she's supposed to be at the moment. The voice startles her badly, mostly because it's so familiar.

Jan manages a squeak of surprise and "Mr. Kirk!" before a knee-jerk reaction of guilt sets in and she flips her notepad facedown on her desk, thereby—due to her serious penchant for clumsiness whenever Kirk is around—promptly knocking over the pen and pencil holder at her elbow in the process. Ink pens, markers and highlighters of varying colors cascade across her desk and down to the floor.

"Oh! Sorry, hold on!" Jan apologizes hastily, embarrassed, and scrambles after the fly-away items. A tired-looking accountant passing by the cubicle offers up two errant blue ballpoint pens. Jan thanks the man for the help, her blush deepening.

By the time she is less flustered and all the assorted writing utensils are back where they belong, Janice realizes she has forgotten about her boss. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Kirk! Can I help you?" Glancing up meekly at the entirely too gorgeous man then down at her lap again, she clears her throat and smoothes the fabric of her skirt with a nervous hand.

Had he seen that caricature of Mr. Mudd on her notepad? Well, it's not like she can help being miserable and bored! It's Friday afternoon and most of the regular (by which she means properly employed by the company) employees have taken a half-day to get a headstart on their weekend plans. (Even Uhura, who works the long hours her executive position demands, is notably absent.) Being a temp worker means every minute counts for Janice if she wants to be paid her normal 40 hours a week. So, as a wise but poor woman, she has opts to stay at her desk and look on wistfully at the midday sun and the world beyond the office windows, imagining all the things that would be more fun than sitting in a cubicle during early spring weather, like window shopping along her favorite street of stores.

Jim Kirk, CEO of Kirk Enterprises, hasn't taken his eyes off her since he said her name. He has an arm propped against the top of her cubicle wall and looks to be in no hurry, his attire magically free of the wrinkles that are the result of hours of office work. It's a little unusual for Kirk, who normally needs her to 'tidy him up' the moment he shows up in the morning looking like he rolled out of bed, skipped a shower and drove straight to the office. In recent weeks, she has had to add a hair comb and cologne to her stash of ties and men's cufflinks. Jan thinks maybe the reason Jim has yet to send her back to the temp agency after a year and a half is because she's the only one who corners him in the men's bathroom and forces him to brush his teeth before a Board of Directors meeting.

"Janice," Kirk's tone is slow, almost silky, "how busy are you this afternoon?"

Is that a trick question? If she says not busy at all (which is the truth), will that look bad? If she says she has things to do, then how does that excuse the doodling on her notepad in abject boredom? It's not like she would ignore a task or a phone call if either of those things currently needed to be taken care of!

But before Janice can get past her worry enough to answer, Kirk gives her his most charming smile as if the question wasn't meant to be serious at all. Luckily Jan is sitting down or her knees might wobble a little in response, because her boss who is handsome when he's frowning is unnaturally stunning when he smiles. Her first impression of him as a golden Adonis doesn't seem to cover it anymore. She has come to the conclusion that he is the sexiest man alive on planet Earth. Honestly, it's so easy to be a little bit in love with Jim—even though she knows he's taken and never in a million years would he see her as more than an administrative assistant and a friend.

Oh, life. Sometimes the world is cruel and unfair, dangling the perfect man in her reach only for him to be _married_. Well, she amends, engaged. The wedding is still two months away. Neither Kirk nor McCoy understood the principle of 'engagement period' and Chapel had to sit them down and explain why they couldn't have a ceremony the weekend after the announcement. There was a long list of guests who would want to attend, including clients, a caterer to book, a location to secure, not to mention the theme, the clothes, the vows to memorize, and somewhere at the bottom of that list, a honeymoon to plan.

During that long 'conference', Jan had giggled into her hand when Jim blinked and said, "Why can't we just do a Vegas thing?" McCoy, just shaking his head, had turned a blind eye to Chapel's reaction, which had resulted in Jim needing the ice pack Janice had kindly prepared in advance of the conversation.

She sighs at the memory.

Jim is a soon-to-be married, gorgeous, _perfect_ man. Who, currently, is smiling at her winsomely. Jan thinks she's owed ten times over for the injustice of it all. Maybe geneticists have figured out by now how to clone more than sheep?

Her thoughts are quickly drawn back to the present and to her boss when Jim declares with his usual charm, "Unfortunately, lovely lady, you're going to have to give the next three hours to me no matter what you have going on today. Clear your schedule." Then he turns away and saunters back toward his office, calling over his shoulder that he needs to retrieve his coat before they can leave.

It's a good thing he can't see her because it takes about thirty seconds for Janice to close her mouth.

Spending the afternoon with Jim? _Only_ with Jim?

But why?

Nerves tingling for various reasons, she hurriedly finds her purse and shoves every last bit of makeup from three different desk drawers into it. By the time Jim returns from his office, suit jacket on and looking relaxed with his hands tucked in his pants pockets, she is too giddy to stand still. Her heels click rapidly along the tile hallway as she matches his long, easy strides to their floor's elevator.

"Sir," Jan says, suddenly struck by a moment of alarm as she remembers his calendar for that day, "but what about the meeting with Mr. Spock at four o'clock?" They enter the elevator.

Jim looks unconcerned as he presses the button for the parking garage level. "I rescheduled with him for early next week. Don't worry about it."

Oh, she's not. But undoubtedly Mr. Spock would have been.

Catching her eye, Jim gives her a faint grin as if he can sense her thoughts. "He knows I'll make it up to him later on."

Jan tries hard not to blush. Really, she does.

She knows Jim loves Leonard, has in fact been in love with Leonard for several years now, but there are times when she wonders if his flirty talk concerning the uptight, frankly rather terrifying Mr. Spock isn't due to a very real attraction. Then again, hasn't she seen Leonard just looking amused rather than concerned when Jim says something very far from appropriate to Mr. Spock, whose eyebrow always gives an involuntary twitch at Kirk's audacity?

Men have always been strange creatures, but maybe it's just these men in particular she won't ever quite understand.

Her boss holds up a set of keys and jingles them gently, catching her attention. "Want to drive?"

Janice lifts a hand to his forehead without thinking. "Are you sick, Mr. Kirk?"

Laughing, he shrugs away from her and slips out of the elevator when the doors open to the parking garage. "Follow me, Miss Rand."

Janice clutches her purse to her body and trails after him, unable to do anything else.

What in the world is up with her boss?

Or better yet, she thinks as they peel out of the garage in his sleek sports car at a speed that makes her shriek, what is he up to?

~~~

Confused and wary, Janice enters the building. "This... is a department store."

"It is," Jim agrees cheerfully, heading with purpose to one side of the store.

She catches up with him, asking, "But, Mr. Kirk—"

"Jim."

 _I can't call you Jim when I'm not certain if you're still in your right mind,_ she doesn't protest. "Sir, this is a _department_ store." A couple and their three kids pass them along the aisle. She drops her voice to a fierce whisper. "A store you shop at with your, your..."

Jim blinks at her, not understanding her confusion. "...with my administrative assistant?"

He's not making a joke. Oh no. There really _is_ something wrong with the poor man! She pulls her cell phone out of her purse and starts searching for Leonard's number in her contact list. She could call Christine if she can't reach McCoy. "It's all right, Mr. Kirk," she tells her boss as she frowns down at her phone screen (where is that number?). "Everybody gets a little confused sometimes about the difference in duties between an administrative assistant and a _personal_ assistant."

When it dawns on the man why she is stressing the word 'personal', his eyes widen to a comical degree.

Janice feels bad for him so she gives him a reassuring smile. "Maybe there's something you need help with that Len—ah, Mr. McCoy can do for you?"

Jim's skin is flushed. "Jan—I mean, _Miss Rand_ , we're, ah, here on business." Following her pointed look at their surroundings, he adds quickly "I swear!" and flushes further.

She brings up her chin. "Listen, Jim... I can chase after you when your shirttail is sticking out, I can fight the morning crowd at your favorite cafe for the single blueberry bagel with cream cheese you always want for breakfast on Mondays, and I can gladly lie to Chairman Pike's face, telling him you're out of the office when you're actually in the middle of making out with your boyfriend in the supply closet. But I draw the line at picking out your underwear."

Now it's her turn to flush because her brain has immediately debated between boxers and briefs and come up with _sexy man thongs._

No. No, she is not looking at that display case of men's underwear to her left and imagining her boss in them. Stop it, Janice!

Jim puts a hand to his eyes but he's grinning and shaking a little like something is funny. He sobers after a second or two and asks, still grinning, "Did you really lie to Pike?"

"I would think if he'd caught you with your pants down during a work day, he would have fired you."

He bursts out laughing. A nearby saleswoman looks between them curiously before turning away to assist a customer with a question.

"Oh," Jim says, "oh, Janice, you are a _gem_. Really. It's a good thing we can—" But the man clears his throat, less talkative all of a sudden, and shifts on his feet, granting Jan a profile view of him. He clears his throat a second time and admits in a somewhat sheepish tone of voice, "Actually, I did bring you here for a little help with, er, my wardrobe. If it makes you uncomfortable, we can go straight back to the office. No harm done."

She considers that offer for a moment, judges it to be sincere, then casts her eyes around them. "I guess I'm kind of curious now. Why here? This place doesn't have—" She eyes his suit. "—clothes in a price range you seem to prefer."

Kirk plucks at his jacket with a small smile. "You mean Armani?" He chuckles as if she has made a joke. "To be honest, I don't care if my clothes are straight off a runway or out of a thrift store."

He looks away. For the first time Janice realizes, astonished, that Jim fidgets when he is being open about something strictly personal.

His eyebrows frown slightly as he talks. "I'm no good at being presentable. I think you figured that out fairly quickly." Those blue eyes are focused on her again without warning.

They're the color of cornflowers, she thinks, and says nothing, waiting for the rest of the explanation.

"There is this men's clothing shop I go to on the east side. They're the ones who put together my business outfits so I don't have to. I am hopeless at that kind of thing myself." Jim frowns down at his shoes. "...If left to my own devices..." He sighs once, then again, which piques Janice's interest.

"So you're saying you have no fashion sense?"

Jim distractedly runs fingers through his hair. "Bones would say that's a mild way of putting it."

Oh. Of course. She's beginning to see what inspired this shopping trip. Dropping her phone back into her purse, she folds her arms and eyes him from head to toe. "Show me."

Jim just looks at her, uncomprehending.

Janice rolls her eyes and turns her boss to face the men's department of the store and gives him an encouraging shove in that direction. "Show me," she orders again. "Find something that you think would make a nice outfit for a causal Saturday and put it on."

"Casual," Jim repeats, expression uncertain. "Um, can you give me a hint?"

Good lord. "Pretend you and your fiancée are going for a walk through the park."

"...To exercise, or to—what do people do at a park if they don't exercise? Wait, is there a lake?"

"There might be," she replies cautiously, no sure where his train of thought is headed.

"Okay. Are we in a paddle boat, or just feeding the ducks from the shore?"

"What?"

"Never mind," he replies offhand. "It won't matter about the lake because Bones wouldn't put me in a boat when he knows I get seasick just looking at open water. So, are we walking a dog?"

Jan grips her purse to prevent herself from swatting at the idiot's head and bursts out with "Just go!"

Kirk mutters about how unfair it is that he can't have clues and hurries away. Janice resists the urge to follow him because it is becoming more and more evident he might be a little on the insane side, and instead focuses on pretending she is interested in Polo shirts for men. It would have been nice, of course, if Jim visited the rack she pointedly loitered at for ten minutes and picked out one of the shirts for his casual look. But the man just wanders back and forth between the clearance winter jackets and sleepwear, looking frustrated. A sales person notices Jim's dilemma but, much to Kirk's loudly communicated dismay, Janice waylays the inquiring young adult with strict instructions: "Don't help him. He has to do this on his own."

After another fifteen minutes, Jim trudges toward the men's dressing area with a bundle of clothes in his arms. When he reappears, he goes straight to the full-length mirror and admires himself with the pride of a four year-old who finally managed to get dressed without adult intervention. Then Jim trails over to her, a hopeful look in his eyes, and waits for her judgment.

Janice stares at him for a long, silent moment. Words take a while to come to her until at last she blurts out, "You can't be serious."

Jim inspects his outfit. "Well, you said casual. This is casual."

"No," she insists, her senses returning full force, "it's a joke. You have to be messing with me. You can't—that's _not_ even—where did you find those pants?"

"Red and yellow are complementary colors." Jim's eyebrows scrunch together. "Aren't they?"

"Not on a person with your skin tone. And red snakeskin looks good on _no one_ , except maybe as a pair of boots on a contestant in Toddlers and Tiaras."

"Oh. Am I supposed to know that reference?" Her boss shifts his weight, a tiny bit of hope still shining in his eyes. "At least the shirt's all right?"

It's plaid. Jim looks like the Chinese version of a lumberjack. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Stalling so she doesn't destroy his last illusion, she points at his neck and demands, "What is that?"

"It's a scarf." Jim takes it off, considers it, and then rewraps it around his neck. "Scarves keep your neck warm."

"It has cartoons on it."

"It's Spiderman." Jim's face lights up with a childish kind of joy. "Do you know Spiderman?"

And just like that, her vision of James Kirk, the perfect man, is shattered. She makes a noise of despair.

Jim looks upset when Jan's shoulders slump. "I tried, Janice. I really did."

She pats his shoulder sympathetically. "I know you did, Jim, but I think now I see why it was so smart of you to bring me here. I'm sorry I doubted your... disability."

"I can't say anyone has ever called it that before but I have to agree. It is like a disability. What if Bones...?" The man trails off and looks at his bare feet.

She finishes for him, "If Mr. McCoy ever feels embarrassed by you? Then clearly he's not worth your time, Mr. Kirk," she says, meaning it.

He smiles faintly at her. "Thanks."

Jan nods, coming to a snap decision. "Wait here, and I will find you the perfect casual outfit for a nice walk in the park. But," she warns him, "the catch is you can't question what I give you. Just try it on."

"All right. I trust you."

That makes her smile, a smile that she valiantly suppresses until she is several racks away where he can't see her too well. At least he's still a sweetie despite being the world's most terrible dresser. That can make up for a lot. Janice has a suspicion Leonard McCoy probably would—or already does—see it that way.

Soon Janice finds she is enjoying herself. All initial apprehension gone, she combs through the men's clothes until she has a three suitable outfits for her boss to wear. He is very obliging about putting them on without complaint (though she does have to give him a bit of a stern look when he eyes a pair of khaki shorts with disbelief) and even seems to like what she's chosen, if the way he sets it aside on the sales counter is any indication that he intends to purchase the items. It's actually very nice to see him regain his confidence each time he exits the dressing room and she nods her approval. A Jim Kirk without confidence is just... wrong.

Apparently the thought of having his fiancée and soon-to-be husband move in with him and discover he has nothing but expensive suits and Spiderman pajamas is enough to send her employer into a minor panic.

Well, never let it be said Janice isn't a soft-hearted gal.

Of course, she is also a little devious at heart too—or she is once she realizes what an advantageous situation this time with Jim really is, especially given _where_ they are. The thought might never have occurred to her if she hadn't spied the skinny jeans.

They look innocuous, just a pair of men's jeans made by some high-priced brand name. Janice walks her fingers along the different size tags, recalling the pants size Kirk said he wears and hesitates only a moment before plucking up a pair of jeans one size too small. Jim is just coming out of the men's dressing room in a pair of droopy sweat pants and an undershirt (for some reason he believes he is absorbing her fashion sense by osmosis which, sadly, he isn't) and grins at her. "Are we done?"

Jan returns the smile, saying, "Almost" and shoves the jeans into his hands. "Just try on this last thing for me."

"But didn't I already try on a pair of these?"

"The baggy, comfortable kind, Mr. Kirk," Janice replies sweetly and places her hands on her hips. "Have you forgotten our little agreement already?"

He apologizes, shrugs and starts for the dressing room, only to haphazardly glance down at the tag on the jeans and question in a dubious tone, "Janice, I don't think these will—"

Janice is the picture of innocence. "Trust me, Jim. Just try them on."

He blinks at her encouragement and thankfully does not argue, no doubt thinking _well, why not?_

Why not, indeed, Janice thinks approvingly when he comes back out a few minutes later looking like he's been poured into his pants and probably feeling like it too, given the way his face is pinched when he waddles carefully toward the mirror.

Janice _hmm_ s like she is actually criticizing the cut of the jeans, not simply oogling his ass, and circles him. Jim turns somewhat ponderously to follow her rather predatory circle, his pinched expression more pained with each second that passes.

"I, um, don't think the fit is supposed to be this tight."

"Oh?" she asks. "But it looks so good on you, Mr. Kirk!"

He shifts with evident discomfort; the movement makes his pert butt give a delicious little wiggle in the mirror. The man gives a futile tug to the waistband biting viciously into his hipbones, making a tiny, unhappy noise. "I can't even bend my knees, Janice. Heh, maybe I've put on weight?" He sounds like he is trying to find a tactful way to explain that her selection of jeans is killing his circulation. "I'm sure if we went one size up, I'd love them."

It would be a loss, she supposes, finally taking pity on him, if he couldn't bend over. McCoy would surely feel that way.

Swallowing an unashamed giggle, Jan calms herself and nods with the kind of composure to rival the aloof Mr. Spock. "I apologize, sir. I guess I wasn't paying attention to the size."

Wincing, her boss waddles back toward his dressing room, muttering something about needing a pair of scissors or body oil to get himself free. Janice lifts her cell phone from the depths of her purse just enough to snap a photo of his backside while at the same time giving the appearance of checking for text messages.

The sales attendant at the register casts a knowing look in her direction when she and Kirk approach the counter. "Were the jeans not a good fit?" the lady asks politely.

Jim winces. "You could say that." He motions at the stack of clothing waiting on them. "I'll take all of these, please."

After Jim hands over his credit card without paying attention to the total of his purchase and is juggling the numerous plastic bags, the sales lady catches Janice's arm, delaying her from following her boss out of the store.

"Care to share?"

Jan tilts her head in study of the older woman. Well, it's not like Jim's face is in the picture. "Okay," she agrees. She quickly types in the woman's proffered cell number in her phone.

"Bless you, child!" the woman beams at Janice as she forwards the picture on, pressing the sales receipt into her hand.

Jan gives a little bow and, grinning, hurries to catch up to Kirk. Outside the store, Jim gives her a questioning look. She waves the receipt at him. "You forgot this."

"Oh, thanks," he says, pocketing it.

The drive back to the office is silent but only because Janice is preoccupied with the newest treasure on her phone. At one point Jim asks her if everything is all right. Jan replies easily, smiling to herself, "Everything's perfect, Jim."

Kirk's jean-clad ass will become the desktop wallpaper on her home computer, maybe forever.

Her phone buzzes in her hand. Jan looks down and reads the latest text message. Apparently Christine, Nyota, Marlena, Helen, and a myriad of other female coworkers agree wholeheartedly.

"Janice," Kirk begins to say at her elbow, "there's something I have been meaning to talk to you about."

"What's that?" she asks absently, wondering if there is some kind of Internet contest she can enter the picture into.

"About your employment."

Her head jerks up. "Huh?" _Oh, no. Oh, no, don't fire me!_

Janice can feel her eyes filling with tears already. "Sir, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention earlier! It won't happen again!" _Oh, please, I like this job, I need this job._

He just looks at her, asking blankly, "What about earlier?"

"About..." Janice searches for a quick explanation.

Jim seems to realize what she meant. " _Oh_." But a grin stretches his mouth rather than a frown. "Nice portrayal of Mr. Mudd, by the way."

Maybe she can fling herself out of the car and into oncoming traffic. That would be a simple, if somewhat messy, solution to her embarrassment. Janice fights down a blush. "I didn't mean for you to see that."

"Bones does a great impression of Harry. You should ask him about that sometime. ...Not that I condone that sort of behavior in the office." Jim's attempt at a serious expression fails miserably, especially when he starts to laugh, cheerful as ever.

Janice is certain she has never met a stranger man. Tentatively, she asks, "Jim, are you trying to fire me or not?"

Jim looks astonished at the idea. That reaction equally astonishes Janice.

"No," her boss tells her, "I was actually hoping to hire you in a more official capacity." He begins to apologize quickly, "I know it's taken a long time to open up the position, and I am sorry you had to wait, not knowing—"

Her fingers lose their terrified grip on her cell phone. She can't think beyond throwing herself across the car to hug the silly man. Of course, given they are in rush-hour traffic, she pulls herself up short of doing exactly that. But Jan imagines doing it all the same, perhaps so fiercely that her thoughts must penetrate Kirk's brain.

He gives her a brilliant grin. "Does that mean you want the job?"

"Yes!" Jan cries. "Thank you, sir!"

"No," he demurs, "thank you. You're already an amazing addition to the team—and believe me you've made yourself very indispensable to all of us."

She knows what he means. "You're darned right!" she says happily. "You need me." It's wonderfully freeing to say that and have it acknowledged!

Janice's mind races ahead; she is so thrilled at the prospect of employee benefits, she titters and almost bounces in her seat.

Jim doesn't stop smiling. "That I do. We all do. Welcome to Kirk Enterprises, Miss Rand." Then he clears his throat. "By the way, act surprised when we get there."

Even a small cloud of confusion can't diminish her joy. "Where, Jim?"

"At the office. There's, ah, a party." He looks pleased and embarrassed at the same time. "For you."

Jan stares at him, thinks hard, then stares some more. Jim flashes another grin of _aren't my ideas great?_ at her.

She gasps once she figures it out. "Then you do know red snakeskin pants are ugly!"

"A little," the man admits.

Janice feels by that point she is well within her rights to beat him over the head with her purse, boss or not.

Kirk adds hastily, "But let's call it even, okay? I put on those skinny jeans for you, didn't I?"

She settles back into her seat. "Oh, you devious _man_."

"Really?" he asks mildly. "So what's on the cell phone, Janice?"

She blushes to the roots of her hair, picking up her phone and clutching it possessively. "I refuse to delete it!"

From the driver's seat, Jim sighs. But it's a sigh born of amusement, not exasperation. "Just do me one favor, and I promise to forget it exists."

"What's that?"

Jim's mouth curves in a wicked smile. "Send the picture to Bones on our wedding night."

Janice flushes then laughs, and sticks out her hand. "It's a deal, boss."

They shake on it. The car accelerates, hurtling them across the city, and for once Janice Rand feels everything is perfectly all right in her world.

_-Fini_


End file.
